


Skeletons

by flawedamythyst



Series: Skeletons [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Implied Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-10-31
Packaged: 2017-11-16 10:04:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 57,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's refusal to talk about his past hides far more skeletons than John could ever have guessed at.  Halloween-esque AU. </p><p>Now complete.</p><p>Actually a fusion with another (well-known) fandom, but I feel that knowing which in advance spoils some of the story, so I have put it behind a spoiler-cut in the End Note. I don't feel it's necessary to have knowledge of that fandom to read this fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by the awesome Mazarin221b. Thank you so much, you were incredibly helpful! And thanks also to Mresundance for helping me find the motivation to finish this.

“I presume you're not intending to celebrate tomorrow in any way,” said Sherlock, not looking up from the newspaper he was flicking through.

John froze in the act of raising toast to his mouth. Tomorrow, tomorrow, what was tomorrow? Other than a Sunday, and it seemed incredibly unlikely that Sherlock was asking if he intended to go to church. He glanced at the back of Sherlock's newspaper for the date. Oh.

He let out a bitter laugh. “Not exactly over-flowing with possibilities on that front, am I? Women aren't beating down the door for the chance at spending Valentine's Day with a clapped-out ex-soldier.”

“You're not clapped-out,” said Sherlock. “You're not even limping any more. Really, John, this self-pity is unnecessary.” He turned a page in the paper. “If you do receive any cards-”

“On a Sunday?” asked John. “Sherlock, please don't tell me you've deleted the Royal Mail as well.”

Sherlock kept speaking as if he hadn't heard him. “-then I would appreciate it if you kept them in your room. I don't want such things cluttering up the flat.”

“You've got something against Valentine's cards?” said John. “Wait, of course you do – pointless sentimentality, right?”

“Something along those lines,” said Sherlock. “I suppose I should have mentioned it earlier, but you can't celebrate any holidays in this flat.”

John stared at the part of Sherlock's face that he could see over the top of the newspaper. “No holidays at all? Sherlock! That's-”

“I won't compromise on this,” interrupted Sherlock, finally lowering the paper to fix John with his most serious look. “If you want to celebrate any of them, you will have to do it elsewhere. And don't even think about involving me.”

“What?” asked John, now completely flabbergasted. “Seriously, not any holidays?”

“Not any of them,” said Sherlock. “Let me be as clear as I can. Not Valentine's Day, not Easter, not Halloween, not Guy Fawkes' Night, not Christmas, and not New Year's Eve. And none of smaller ones, like April Fools or St. Patrick's Day, and none of the ones from other cultures and religions: Diwali, Hanukkah, none of that. I don't want any of it in here – no decorations, no cards, no presents, nothing.”

John kept staring but Sherlock had gone back to his paper, apparently assuming the conversation was over. “Not even Christmas?” asked John eventually.

“Especially not Christmas,” growled Sherlock, turning the page with a furious rustle. “If there's even one hint of tinsel in here, John, I will be forced to move out.”

“Oh, come on,” said John, “you can't seriously expect me to-”

Sherlock cut him off with a glare. “I've already stated exactly what I expect,” he snapped. “If you can't indulge me in this one thing, John-”

“As opposed to indulging you in your whims to keep body parts in our bloody kitchen?” shot back John, waving at the kitchen. “Those eyeballs don't even have a lid on them!”

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. “A compromise, then,” he said. “I will keep body parts covered, and you won't celebrate holidays in our flat.”

John hesitated. Was that worth it?

Sherlock let out an irritated hiss. “I will also avoid playing the violin between midnight and six am,” he added.

“Seven am,” said John immediately.

“No,” said Sherlock. “Six, or nothing. And I should point out that I really will move out if you don't agree to avoid holidays.”

John might only have lived with him a fortnight, but he already knew that the last thing he wanted was to lose Sherlock, particularly over something like a bit of tinsel. “Oh, fine then,” he said. “No holidays, and you'll keep body parts covered, and not play in the middle of the night.”

The stern glare was wiped off Sherlock's face, and replaced with a smile. “Thank you,” he said, then returned to his reading.

John shook his head, both at Sherlock and himself, then turned his attention back to his breakfast. “It's a shame, really,” he said. “Yorick would look good in a Santa hat.”

Sherlock frowned. “Yorick?”

“Your skull,” said John, nodding at the mantelpiece.

Sherlock glanced over, then gave John the look he usually reserved for Anderson's attempts at forensics. “He's not called Yorick, he's called Sherrinford,” he said.

John felt his eyebrows raise. “You actually named your skull?”

“ _I_ didn't,” said Sherlock. “Do you really think I'd have chosen 'Sherrinford'? Mummy named him.”

“Your mother?” asked John. “How long have you had it?”

Sherlock shrugged. “He's been in the family longer than I have,” he said.

The more John learnt about the Holmes family, the less he wondered how Sherlock had ended up as he was. It was more of a wonder that he wasn't a lot odder.

****

Valentine's Day passed without any hint of it intruding on 221B, much as John had thought it would. He mentally resigned himself to ignoring all the other holidays as well, and found that he wasn't actually that bothered about it. He'd never really been the type to get excited about decorations and presents, and it felt like most of the celebrations weren't really aimed at ageing bachelors who just wanted to hide from the remnants of their family.

When Easter came around, Harry made a few noises about maybe meeting up for Sunday lunch, but John was able to put her off. She'd only have used it as an excuse to start drinking even earlier than usual, and he didn't really want to have to deal with that. 

He worked Good Friday, then came home as Mrs. Hudson was leaving to spend the weekend at her sister's.

“Have a good Easter, dear,” she said, kissing John's cheek. “Try not to let His Grumpiness get you down.”

“Oh, don't worry about me,” said John. “I can handle Sherlock.”

Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa with his laptop when John arrived, and completely ignored his greeting. John mentally shrugged, more than used to that kind of thing by now, and went to make himself some dinner.

Afterwards, he sat down in his chair and switched on the telly, then remembered what he'd put in his coat pocket earlier and got up to retrieve it. He settled back down and started to unwrap it, and Sherlock's head sprang up.

“Is that an Easter egg?” he demanded.

“It's a crème egg,” said John. “Sarah gave them to all the staff today. Not sure it really counts as-”

“What did I tell you about holidays?” interrupted Sherlock. “Get it out of here.”

“Oh, come on,” protested John. “It's just a bit of chocolate and goo – it'll be gone in less than a minute.”

“That's a minute too long,” said Sherlock firmly. “If you must eat it, it'll have to be in your room.”

“Jesus. Fine then,” said John, rewrapping the egg. “I'll have it later.” He went to put it in his pocket and Sherlock made an aggrieved noise.

“Get rid of it!” he said, sitting up. “I can't have it in here!”

“It's in my pocket,” said John. “You don't have to see it – just pretend it's upstairs.”

“It doesn't work like that!” exclaimed Sherlock.

John rolled his eyes and made absolutely no move to take the damned thing upstairs. There was only so many allowances he'd make for Sherlock's eccentricities. 

Sherlock let out a frustrated groan, sprang up from the sofa, darted to John and pulled the egg out of his pocket before John could react, then strode to the window, opened it and threw the egg out.

“Sherlock!” protested John, leaping to his feet. “What the hell did you do that for?”

Sherlock spun around and pointed a finger at him. “No holiday accoutrements at all, John. I trust I have made myself clear. I really do not want to have to move out.”

He picked up his laptop and swept away to his room while John just stared after him, gaping.

Sherlock spent most of the weekend sequestered in his room, although he did emerge late on Easter Sunday in order to stand in the sitting room and play a three hour concert. John sat on the sofa, reading a book and trying to ignore him. He was still smarting over the loss of his crème egg – it might be only a small thing, but it had been John's, and Sherlock hadn't bothered with even a hint of an apology.

Eventually, Sherlock lowered his bow and let out a little sigh. “Are you intending to sulk for much longer? It's becoming tiresome.”

“Are you going to replace my egg?” countered John.

Sherlock made a face. “I can't do that, John.”

“Of course not,” said John. “That might count as the act of a decent human being.” He glared at Sherlock. “You know, I put up with a lot from you – and most of it I don't really mind all that much, considering - but throwing my stuff out of the window just because you're having a hissy fit over a religious festival is going a bit far.”

Sherlock let out a long sigh that John recognised as his 'oh, why can't you just understand' sigh, and glanced over at the skull. “I apologise if my actions seemed a little extreme,” he said in a stilted voice. “I did not intend to upset you.”

John lowered his book. That was possibly the first apology he'd ever heard from Sherlock. It was definitely the first that sounded as if he meant it, mostly because of how unpractised it was. He was clearly not used to saying sorry and that, more than the actual words, made John's annoyance melt away.

“Oh, fine then,” he said. “I'll be more careful to keep these things out of the flat, if it's going to upset you that much.”

Sherlock beamed. “Thank you, John,” he said. “I'll take you to dinner as compensation for your loss, how does that sound? Not today, of course, later in the week. I'm not leaving the flat today.”

“In case someone wishes you a happy Easter?” guessed John. 

Sherlock flinched, and lifted his bow again. “Precisely,” he said, then launched into a fast, energetic jig. John left his book on his lap in favour of watching Sherlock play, admiring the way he threw himself whole-heartedly into the music. Somehow, he always found it hard to stay angry with Sherlock.

****

Sherlock did take him for dinner a few days later, and then again a fortnight after that, when John went into the bathroom one morning and found a dead rabbit in the shower. Apology dinners became one of their small rituals, like late-night Chinese after a case, or Mrs. Hudson coming upstairs after church on a Sunday morning to have breakfast with them.

One of the things Sarah told John when she broke up with him was that he had so many little habits and traditions with Sherlock that there wasn't room for him to start any new ones with a girlfriend. John supposed she had a point, but it wasn't as if he'd really noticed them developing. He only really noticed them once Sherlock put off heading to Barts to examine a corpse until after Mrs. Hudson had been and gone on a Sunday, or asked, “Will Claridge's suit for the apology, or do I need to push the boat out even more than that?” in lieu of actually saying sorry. 

That was after a case during which he had convinced everyone – including John – that he was dying of some improbable tropical disease. John, who had spent the last eight hours in a state of pulse-thrumming terror that he was about to lose the crazy bastard who made his life worth living, just stared at him.

“No,” he said, eventually. “No, Sherlock, just- You can't _do_ things like this to people - to me!”

Sherlock frowned. “It was less than a day,” he said. “And you know I'm fine now.”

John looked at his blank incomprehension and just turn around and left the room. There was no way to actually explain what it felt like to watch the most important person in your life rambling about oysters and slowly fading away, not to someone who apparently didn't have the first conception of what it really meant to care about another person.

The most important person in his life. Christ, how had John's life ended up like this? And the worst thing was that, most of the time, he was completely fine with the insanity of his daily life. He stomped to Regent's Park and did a circuit, trying his best to calm down.

He went back eventually – where else would he go? - and let Sherlock take him to Claridge's. Afterwards, he went up to his room and sat on his bed for a long time, staring at the wall and trying to believe that allowing Sherlock to get away with this kind of thing wasn't going to end extremely badly.

He eventually pulled himself up to get ready for bed, and as he went down to the bathroom, he heard Sherlock's voice coming from the sitting room.

“It was the logical course of action! You know how appalling John's acting can be. He needed to believe it, or he'd have given me away.”

Who on earth was he talking to?

“Oh, shut up,” said Sherlock. “What does it matter? It's all done with now.”

John couldn't hear another voice. He carefully crept down the stairs, automatically avoiding the creaky fifth step. The door to the sitting room was open enough for him to see Sherlock crouched in his chair, hands buried in his hair. The rest of the room was empty. Maybe there was someone in the kitchen?

“It should be simple,” said Sherlock. “It was the best way to catch Culverton, and letting John in on the plan would have endangered it. Nothing else should matter.” He looked up at the mantelpiece as if looking for a response.

Oh, thought John. He's talking to the skull.

Sherlock gripped at his hair, then rubbed his hands over his face in a hard gesture.

“It does matter though, doesn't it?” a voice said, and it must have been Sherlock but it didn't quite sound like him. Muffled by his hands, perhaps. “John matters.”

Sherlock looked back up at the skull and scowled. “You're not helping.”

Talking to the skull and supplying his own responses for it. No wonder he thought John was better to talk to. 

If Sherlock was having a late-night argument with himself over this, maybe he had realised how cruel his actions had been. John felt his heart lighten and turned towards the bathroom. It was a definite start. If he just had to keep pushing at Sherlock's emotional understanding on things like this, eventually he'd get through to him. Just because it didn't come naturally, didn't mean it wouldn't ever come.

****

A week later, Sherlock was sent a pink phone, and events rapidly span out of control until John was strapped to a bomb with a crazed psychopath giggled in his ear, watching the evidence of just how attached to him Sherlock had grown bloom across his face.

 _I'm so sorry_ he thought. _I'm sorry that I made you care only so that it could be used against you._

Sherlock pulled himself together and wiped the look from his face, but John could hear a raw edge to his voice as he and Moriarty traded banter. Moriarty left just long enough for John to let himself feel relief that it was over, then popped back again as if killing them was just something that had just slipped his mind.

“You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind.”

Sherlock looked at John with a question in his eyes that John wasn't sure he was translating properly. He nodded anyway, because it was clear by now that he'd agree to anything Sherlock asked, and Sherlock turned towards Moriarty.

“Probably my answer has crossed yours,” he said, lowering his gun to aim at the bomb. He looked even paler than he usually did, his skin almost glowing compared to his dark hair, and his eyes looking almost entirely colourless.

There was an endless pause as they all stared at each other and it felt as if the whole world was holding its breath, waiting for the next move. The pool appeared to grow dimmer and the shadows behind Moriarty seemed to shift and move, reaching out for him as if to suck him down into the depths of Hell where he belonged. John blinked in an effort to get rid of the optical illusion, but the tension of the moment was apparently too much for him to be able to reassert rationality over what he was seeing.

Suddenly, there was the tinny sound of a mobile playing 'Staying Alive'. It broke the moment completely, prompting John's mind to return the shadows to their correct places. Sherlock twitched, then began to look less like he was already a ghost as colour returned to his face. John started to take slow, even breaths as Moriarty answered his phone, hoping that he wasn't going to do anything embarrassing like pass out.

When Moriarty finally left for good, John found that despite his shock, he was more than capable of standing up, grabbing for Sherlock, and getting them both the hell out of there before they had to cope with any more nasty surprises.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he said with feeling once they were outside under the night sky. “Jesus Christ, Sherlock, what the hell was that?”

Sherlock blinked at him, looking guilty. “What was what?”

“That!” repeated John, gesturing at the building. “Bloody psychopaths and bombs and- and snipers, Sherlock! Snipers, in London! Christ.” He put a hand on his chest, feeling the way that his heart was pounding now that the danger was apparently over. He felt light-headed and shaky, his mind flicking all over the place without ever managing to settle on anything.

“ _That_ was Moriarty,” said Sherlock, putting a hand on John's shoulder. “Take deep breaths, John. We're safe now.”

“Are we?” asked John. “Really? Because I don't see either of us being safe until that lunatic is locked up or dead.”

“That's not entirely true,” said Sherlock, then hesitated before continuing. “I would imagine that if you walked away now, he would not pursue you.”

John stared at him. “Don't be an idiot, Sherlock,” he said. “Or at least, don't be a bigger idiot than you clearly already are – how was it ever going to be a good idea to meet the bastard? I'm not leaving you to face him alone.”

“Oh,” said Sherlock, and his hand squeezed John's shoulder. “Good, that's good.”

“Yeah,” agreed John. “Now, let's go home so I can have a panic attack in peace.”

Sherlock nodded and looked around them. “Best chance of a taxi is this way,” he said, but he waited for John to start moving first, rather than just striding away in his usual manner. His hand fell away from John's shoulder with what seemed like reluctance, and he kept so close to him on the walk out to the nearest main road that their shoulders kept bumping together.

 _Well, at least I wasn't the only one who was rattled,_ thought John as he fought to bring the panicked adrenalin thrumming through his veins under control. Hopefully, Sherlock was affected enough to make him rethink doing this kind of thing next time. And if he wasn't, then the talking to John was going to give him once they were safely home would definitely make him think twice before meeting up with psychopaths in the future.

****

Life returned to what passed as normal after that, although John couldn't help checking over his shoulder for kidnappers every so often. Moriarty went to ground, and nothing Sherlock did could reveal any trace of him. Eventually he went back to working other cases, but John could tell he was just as on-edge as John was, waiting for Moriarty's next move.

During July, they found themselves caught up in a complex drugs-related case. John wasn't able to completely follow the logic as to why a condemned house was definitely the meeting place of the drug dealers they were after, but he nodded as if it all made perfect sense when Sherlock laid it out for him. Sherlock gave him a knowing look but didn't call him out on it, for which John was grateful. There was only so many times per week that he could handle being called an idiot, and they were close to reaching his limit.

Sherlock decreed that the only possible course of action was for him and John to wait inside the house, with police back-up close-by. Greg immediately insisted on coming with them, claiming he couldn't trust either of them on a police stake-out without supervision, even if it wasn't technically his division. John thought that was a bit harsh – Sherlock clearly wasn't to be trusted, but John tried to make up for that.

Sherlock's plan seemed fine when they were sitting in a bright, modern conference room at the Yard, before John discovered just how old and fallen down the house was. It had been left partially furnished whenever the last resident had moved out or died, and then been shut up and left to rot, so that it was filled with decomposing furniture, moth-eaten curtains, and endless piles of dust.

“Is anyone else waiting for eerie organ music to start playing?” asked John, his voice falling into the silence of the darkened room they were waiting in like a stone into a deep well.

Lestrade laughed. “Either that, or Jacob Marley is going to turn up and demand we discover the true spirit of Christmas.”

“He'll be here for Sherlock if he does pop by,” said John. “He's said I'm not allowed to put up a single decoration.”

“Christmas is moronic,” said Sherlock, twitching back the tattered curtain to gaze out at the overgrown garden again.

“Seriously, this is the closest to a haunted house I reckon I've ever been in,” said John. “I really am expecting some headless lady in white to come gliding in.”

“It's not haunted,” said Sherlock.

“We should probably be taking advantage of the ambience to tell horror stories,” said John. They'd been there for nearly two hours already, and he was starting to get seriously bored. If the way Lestrade had started to fiddle with his handcuffs was any sign, he was as well. Sherlock, of course, was still perfectly focused on the garden gate he had decided the drug dealers would arrive through.

“You can start, then,” said Lestrade. “Not sure I know any, other than the obvious ones. The Monkey's Paw, the one with the girl's dog licking her hand-”

“-and it turns out he was dead all along and it was the killer licking her,” finished John. “Yeah.” He thought for a moment. “Not sure I actually know any others – or at least, not well enough to tell.”

Lestrade snorted. “So much for that, then.”

There was silence for another few minutes and John shifted his position on the floor, wondering how he was going to be able to get up and run after criminals when his arse was starting to go numb. Maybe he should have risked sitting on the mouldy-looking sofa after all.

“I know a story,” said Sherlock into the quiet.

“A horror story?” asked John, surprised. He glanced at Lestrade, who looked equally stunned. Sherlock wasn't exactly the story-telling type, unless it was a story about himself, and how brilliant he was.

“It includes a decapitated head,” said Sherlock. “That counts, surely?”

“Yeah, should do,” said Lestrade. “Go for it, then.”

John braced himself. Any story that Sherlock thought was a horror story was bound to be enough to scare the bejeesus out of anyone else, especially if told in an abandoned house in the middle of the night.

Sherlock was silent for a long moment, then started speaking in a careful, even tone. “There was once a woman with three sons.”

“No father?” asked Lestrade.

“Fathers are irrelevant to this story,” said Sherlock, sounding tetchy. “And I would appreciate it if there were no interruptions.”

“Right, sorry,” said Lestrade, pulling a face at John behind Sherlock's back that made John hide a grin with his hand.

“The woman and her sons lived in a small town where everyone worked in the same industry, and where nothing unrelated to that industry ever happened. Moreover, the citizens were forbidden from ever leaving the town boundaries, except for one day a year. It was an extremely dull place, especially if you were uninterested in the work they all engaged in. Almost everyone there was rather fanatically devoted to that work - it was generally considered akin to blasphemy to suggest that anything unrelated to it might be worth doing.”

John had one or two thoughts about Sherlock's own devotion to his work, but kept silent. He didn't want to put Sherlock off from telling this story before he'd even got into it.

“The woman's sons were all extremely intelligent and had little interest in the town's business. They lived for the one day a year when they were allowed to go out and see the world. All three of them were fascinated with the ways of those who did not live in their town, but for different reasons. The oldest would always seek out concert halls and listen to the world's greatest musicians, or go to art galleries and look at masterpieces. The middle son would go to the seats of governments around the globe and watch their debates, learning how the complexities of politics worked. Extremely dull, but for some reason he found it interesting. The youngest son, who was clearly the best one, was fascinated by crimes, and with all the ways it was possible to solve them if one just paid enough attention.”

“I think I've just worked out why the youngest one is your favourite,” said John.

Sherlock turned away from the window long enough to glare at him. “No interruptions,” he snapped.

John held up his hands defensively. “Right, sorry.”

Sherlock took a deep breath, then resumed both staring at the garden and speaking. “The oldest son grew tired of always living in the town and started to devise ways to escape it. He was clever, and he planned meticulously. He knew that once he'd escaped, the ruler of the town would come after him, so he would have to be well-hidden before anyone had even realised he was gone. He kept all his plans to himself, not even telling his brothers – which, frankly, was a mistake. They were clever too, and between the three of them they'd have been able to come up with something much better that what he eventually did. As it was, his mother noticed when he didn't return with the rest of town's citizens at the end of the day out in the world, and sounded the alert. He was found before he could hide himself completely and brought back to his mother, who cut off his head so that he wouldn't be able to escape again.”

“What?” interjected Lestrade. “Jesus, where was this town? Saudi Arabia? That seems a bit over-the-top just for wanting to get out.”

Sherlock let out a sigh. “It didn't kill him,” he said, as if that should be obvious. “The mother was a witch, of sorts. The whole town was what you might call magical, and keeping a head alive without its body was child's play. 

“After that, she had his body as a hostage. She locked it away where neither he nor his brothers could find it, despite their very best efforts to track it down. The next year, his brothers took his head with them to see the world. The middle brother took him to an art gallery before he went to listen to a parliamentary hearing, and then the younger brother took him to a violin concerto after having solved a particularly nasty double murder. They all knew that if they tried to leave him anywhere, though – in the gallery to spend all year with the paintings, or hidden in the concert hall so he could hear every concert, every night – their mother would take her anger out on his body.

“And so things went for another decade or two, all of them stuck in the town and so unbelievably _bored_ with the unending tedium of it. The middle brother grew to appreciate art on the gallery tours he took the eldest on, and even brought some paintings home that they could look at over the year, at least until the mother found them and burnt them.”

“She's a real piece of work, this mother,” commented Lestrade.

“She was just doing what she thought was best for them,” snapped Sherlock. “She thought they should be happy with the lives they had, in the place they were born in. She was wrong, obviously, but parents often are.”

“Ah, right, sorry,” said Lestrade, raising an eyebrow at John, who had already filed the response away in his extremely thin mental folder of 'clues about Sherlock's childhood'.

“The younger brother also became interested in the older brother's interests,” continued Sherlock, “and one year he brought a violin home. He was far better at hiding things than the middle brother, so the mother never found it – although it's possible she wouldn't have minded it as much as the paintings, as long as he'd stuck to songs that reflecting the town's industry. He was interested in more than one kind of music, though, and he learnt how to play all kinds of tunes. He played concerts for the oldest brother when their mother was out, and occasionally let the middle one listen as well, when he wasn't being insufferable.

“Together, they all three realised they had to leave the town, or risk going completely mad with boredom and rage at the single-minded stupidity of the other residents. The younger two brothers spent many months trying to find the body of the oldest brother so that they could escape without fear of reprisals, but the mother had hidden it too well for them. They were also not as careful about keeping quiet about what they were up to as they could have been. She noticed their searches, and began to worry that she would lose all her sons to the world. She started to plot a pre-emptive strike of taking the heads off her younger two sons as well, so that she could keep all three on her mantelpiece, safe at home where they could never leave.”

“Christ,” muttered John. The story hadn't been particularly scary up until that point, but there was a wide mantelpiece on the wall opposite him, lit by the moon and the streetlights outside, and he could imagine all too well three severed heads sitting on it, staring at him and complaining about how bored they were.

“The youngest brother had a habit of wandering around the house when he was meant to be sleeping, looking for something – anything – to occupy his brain for a bit. The night before their annual trip out into the world, he saw his mother sharpening her largest knife in the kitchen and realised what her plan was. He rushed immediately to tell his older brothers, and they left the house that very night, taking little more than the youngest brother's violin, the middle brother's favourite painting, rolled up in tube, and the oldest brother's head, stored in a hat box.”

“A hat box?” asked Lestrade.

Sherlock let out a pain-filled sigh. “The mother was inordinately fond of extremely wide-brimmed hats. Must you question every detail?”

“Sorry, sorry,” said Lestrade, raising his hands.

Sherlock glared at him for a long moment, then continued. “The brothers left the town, but were unable to cross the boundaries until the dawn of the next day, or risk the town's ruler sensing them leaving. They hid themselves in the woodlands just inside the boundary. Unfortunately, a man lived there who is- was far nastier than most of the other residents of the town, and had been exiled many years before for various evil deeds. His servants found the three brothers, and decided to take them to see their master. They distracted the middle brother by being extremely annoying, then stole the hat box containing the eldest brother from him and took it off to their master, confident that the other two brothers would follow to get it back.

“They did, of course. Maybe if it had been the middle brother, they would have just left it – he's insufferable to be around, getting rid of him would have been a bonus – but the eldest brother was. Well, they both liked him enough to go after him, anyway.”

“That's good of them,” said Lestrade. 

Sherlock ignored the interruption with what looked like a lot of willpower. “When they got to where he was being kept, the evil man had the head placed in the centre of a giant roulette wheel, surrounded by spikes. He demanded the other two brothers play a game with him in order to get it back. After a brief argument, it was decided that the youngest brother would play the game – the set-up definitely indicated that there would be some sort of physical element to it, and the middle brother was far too fat for that.”

“Do you know,” said John, “I think I'm beginning to sense that you're using your own sibling relationship as a basis for this story.”

Sherlock sent him a sudden, startled look, then turned back to the window as if to hide his reaction. “Those writing books you've cluttered our flat with all say that you should write what you know,” he said.

“That _I_ clutter the flat with?” repeated John. “Sherlock, who left autopsy photos scattered all over the carpet last week?”

“Oh, is that where those got to?” asked Lestrade. “Sherlock, we need those back. It's hard enough getting a conviction as it is, without you stealing half the evidence.”

“Do you want to hear the end of this story, or do you want to bicker?” replied Sherlock testily, and for a moment he sounded exactly like John's father had used to when he had read bedtime stories to him and Harry when they were kids.

“Sorry, Dad,” he said.

Lestrade snickered and added his own falsely contrite, “Sorry, Dad.”

The look Sherlock gave them both was blistering, and he turned back to staring out at the garden. For a moment, John thought that they'd ruined their chance of hearing the end of the story, but then Sherlock started speaking again.

“The game was rigged. They should have seen that coming. The evil man had never played fair, especially not when it came to making bets. He won - only technically because the youngest brother really would have won if the rules had been adhered to - and he demanded the younger brother give him something for it. The younger brother pointed out that he didn't have anything, but the evil man just pointed at his violin case and said, 'Your music. You have your music. Give me your favourite song, and we'll be even. Maybe I'll even let you have a second try at winning back your brother. Are you feeling lucky?'

“There was no choice. If the youngest brother didn't give in, the evil man was perfectly capable of keeping them all there indefinitely, and that would have been even more indescribably boring than staying with their mother. Or he might have just killed them – he tended towards that kind of thing. Certainly he didn't intend to let them just walk away, with or without the head of their eldest brother. Luckily, he had failed to factor in the younger brother's prowess at playing his violin, or the strength of emotion he was able to put in to it.”

Sherlock paused and gave John and Greg a careful look. “I presume that by this point in the narrative you have realised that they were more than ordinary men.”

“Yeah, surviving as a decapitated head gave that away a bit,” said Lestrade.

“Well, then. When the youngest brother chose, he could play with more than just notes. He could weave the emotions of those around him into the melody, until they were completely contained within the music.”

John privately thought that he'd experienced that a few times with truly gifted musicians in the real world, and even with Sherlock a handful of times. He didn't say that aloud, though – Sherlock had a big enough ego as it was.

“As he played his favourite song for the last time, giving over all his knowledge and love of it over to the evil man, the youngest brother wove in his sadness at losing it, and then brought in the evil man's sadness at having been exiled to the extreme sidelines of life in the town. He played with all his power, casting a spell over the evil man that allowed the middle brother to take back their older brother without being observed and escape the house. The youngest brother finished up his song then ran after him, leaving the evil man still dazed and surrounded by the notes of a song that the youngest brother would never be able to play or even hear properly again.”

He paused for a moment, eyes still fixed outside, and John thought for a minute that he'd seen something in the garden that would bring this story to an abrupt halt as they turned their attention to drug dealers instead. 

“There are quite a few songs I'd like to never hear again,” said Lestrade. “Can't imagine it was one of those, though.”

Sherlock's mouth creased into a tiny smile. “It wasn't by Abba, if that's what you mean.”

Lestrade shuddered. “My Mrs. made me sit through the entirety of Mamma Mia,” he said to John. “Twice. I should have known then that we'd end up separating.”

“John made me sit through three different James Bond films,” said Sherlock. “Does that mean I get to divorce him?”

Lestrade's eyebrows rose, and John sighed. “It's those kind of comments that make people think we're shagging,” he pointed out. Honestly, was it really so hard to keep that kind of subtext out of their conversations? At least in front of other people?

Sherlock made a face. “I don't _shag_ ,” he said in tones of disgust. “I merely meant that our relationship is akin to a marriage. You do love, honour and obey me, after all.”

John gaped. He had absolutely no idea what to do with that statement, especially not with Lestrade's amused and interested gaze on them both. “I don't obey you that often,” he said eventually, leaving aside the far more problematic parts of the statement.

“True,” said Sherlock. “Often enough, though. And I even obey you, on occasion.”

That made John blink at him. “When have you ever obeyed me?”

“Last Tuesday, when you told me not to put my tea down on your wage slip.”

“That's true,” agreed John. “Instead you put it down on my book. It stained a ring on the front cover.”

“You didn't ask me not to put it there,” said Sherlock. “Really, John, you have to ask me these things before I can obey them.”

“Oh yeah,” said Lestrade. “You two are definitely married.”

John gave up with exasperation. “Oh, just finish the story.”

Sherlock smiled at him. “That I can obey as well.” He sounded genuinely pleased at the chance to prove himself right about that and John wondered, not for the first time, exactly how Sherlock saw their relationship. Well, it wasn't as if John had many ideas on how to quantify the way Sherlock had managed to seep into every aspect of his life, although he was self-aware enough to know that the reason he always objected to having it classified as more than friendship was because he wanted that to be more true than it was.

“The brothers escaped into the woods,” continued Sherlock, “leaving the evil man's house far behind them. They reached the boundary of the town, but knew they couldn't cross it until dawn, when the one day when the residents were allowed to go abroad started. If they crossed it before then, the ruler would know instantly and be after them before they could even get to the outside world.

“They settled down to wait the few hours left until the sun came up, placing the oldest brother's head on a tree stump. There was a minor disagreement over who was to blame for the situation – the youngest brother was rather angry about having lost his favourite song just because the middle brother was unable to hold on to a hat box, while the middle brother contended that the youngest should have known that the game would be rigged, and compensated for it with his moves. Which was ridiculous – it was rigged, how can you compensate for that? There's no way to beat something that's been designed to only have one winner.”

“Sounds like a right old barney,” said Lestrade.

“Quite,” said Sherlock. “In the end, the oldest brother intervened and told them both to stop being ridiculous, and that sometimes things happened that couldn't be helped.”

“Ah, he's the sensible one, then,” said John.

“Perhaps,” allowed Sherlock. “He's certainly the one the other two listen to. On occasion, and when he's not being stupidly sentimental.”

“Oh, right,” nodded John. “Sentimentality is the worst possible crime.”

Sherlock gave him a black look, but continued his story rather than respond. “He had just finished saying that when he started screaming. The other two brothers rushed to his assistance, but there was nothing they could do. Back at their old home, their mother had set fire to his body, and he was burning alive.”

“Christ,” said Lestrade, exchanging a startled look with John.

Sherlock was staring out of the window again, apparently ignoring their reactions. “He screamed for a long time, or so it seemed. Eventually the flames reached his head, burning his flesh in front of their eyes, making it bubble and melt away. The middle brother grabbed the picture he had brought with him, pulling it out of its tube and wrapping it around his brother's head in an attempt to smother the flames, but their mother's fire could not be put out merely by lack of oxygen. It burnt as well; a priceless painting reduced to ashes in seconds.

“There was nothing else the brothers could do. They watched as the oldest brother was consumed, reduced to nothing but bone and ashes. His tongue was incinerated but still he screamed, the shrill noises echoing across the forest. Dawn came without them noticing, until, finally, the flames burnt themselves out and the oldest brother stopped screaming.”

There was silence in the room for a long few moments, then Lestrade cleared his throat raggedly. “That'd be the horror part of the story, then.”

“I tend to think the start of the story when they're trapped in that boring place is the horror part,” said Sherlock.

Well, of course he did, thought John. Boredom was the enemy. “What did they do then?” he asked.

Sherlock shrugged. “They realised dawn had come, took their brother's skull, and escaped into the world. They hid themselves away amongst the normal people and created new lives for themselves. I suppose it's a happy ending.”

“Not for the oldest brother,” pointed out Lestrade.

“He recovered,” said Sherlock. “As much as he was able to. The other brothers take care of him, they take him to concerts and art galleries. The youngest brother plays for him, on occasion, and the middle one maintains a private art collection for him.”

“And the mother?” asked John. “Doesn't she get some sort of comeuppance?”

“She was left all alone,” said Sherlock. “I dare say that felt like punishment en-” He cut himself off, staring fiercely at something out of the window, then ducked back behind the curtain.

“What-” started Lestrade, and Sherlock shushed him.

“They're here,” he said, the excitement of the chase beginning to suffuse his voice.

John moved from his seated position into a crouch, wincing as the blood started to rush back into his left leg.

Lestrade pulled out his radio. “Suspects are present,” he said quietly down it. “Maintain positions, and for god's sake, keep out of sight.”

“Three men,” said Sherlock. “One of them looks familiar – oh, it's Jerry Howes.” John recognised the name as a notorious drug dealer. “ The other two must be his men, he's directing them to look around the garden. And here's the other party. Frank Wallace himself.” This was the man that Sherlock had been tracking for the last week, confident that he was bringing in a big shipment to sell on to his distributors tonight.

Sherlock stepped back from the window, then gave Lestrade a quick smile. “Well, this all seems to be in order. Have fun arresting them all. Come on, John.” He started to head for the door, and John leapt up to follow him, stumbling slightly as he put his weight down on the leg that had gone to sleep.

“Hang on,” said Lestrade. “Aren't you staying for the operation?”

“I'm sure you can manage fine without me holding your hand,” said Sherlock, heading down the corridor.

John exchanged a familiar exasperated look with Lestrade, then hurried after Sherlock. “Where are we going?” he asked.

“You'll see,” replied Sherlock mysteriously – as if he was ever anything else. John just sighed and kept following.

****

It turned out that they were going after the third person who was due to be in the garden – the third person that Sherlock hadn't bothered telling anyone about, the one who'd actually smuggled the drugs into the country. Sherlock dragged John outside the house and into a front garden two doors down so that they could watch a tall woman in a shabby football shirt walk towards the abandoned house, then freeze at the unmistakeable sounds of a police raid. She turned on her heels and ran, and Sherlock and John were after her a second later, pelting down the street, feet pounding on the asphalt, the familiar adrenalin bursting through John's veins as he followed half a step behind.

The woman clearly knew the area well. She ducked down a passage between two houses, cutting through to the next road over, then turned sharply left. At the end of the road was a long fence with a gate, surrounding what looked like a park.

 _Not a park,_ realised John as they got closer. A graveyard.

She clambered up over the fence with ease, throwing herself over the top. John prepared himself to follow, hoping he wouldn't be either too short or find that his shoulder was too weak for him to get over. He hated getting left behind.

To his very great surprise, Sherlock stopped at the fence, hesitating for a moment. He turned to John, forming his hands into a step. “Come on, after her,” he said. “I'll boost you.”

“Sherlock-” started John, intending to protest that he could manage on his own, and that he wasn't that short, thank you very much.

“No time,” cut off Sherlock. “Come on, John!”

John let out a sigh, gave up on his dignity and put his foot in Sherlock's hands, letting him send him up and over the fence. He landed firmly on the other side; too firmly, he thought as he jarred his knees.

“Go on,” said Sherlock. “I'm – I'll go round. Cut her off.”

He ran off down the road and John watched him for a moment in disbelief before forcing himself back into the moment and chasing after the figure of the woman. If Sherlock wanted to disappear off to play silly buggers, he could. John was going to catch this woman and find out who the hell she was.

He put on a burst of speed and the ground between them began to shorten. She was slowing, getting tired. Clearly not used to running over long distances – she should get a maniac flatmate who insisted on sprints through the streets of London every other week. She was getting closer to the other side of the graveyard though, and John began to worry she'd get there and be over the fence before he could catch up, and then be off again while he was still struggling to get over without a boost.

And then she tripped on a half-buried grave and he had her. A final sprint to where she was lying on the ground, then he pulled to a stop, his chest heaving with breaths. “Stay down,” he said. “The police are on their way.” Or they would be, as soon as he contacted them. Sherlock wouldn't have bothered with that detail.

She glared up at him from the ground. “Fuck you,” she spat and sprang up at him. He had just enough time to recognise the glint in her hand as a knife before he jumped backwards. The very tip of it caught him, ripping through his coat.

“Jesus!” he said. “Calm down, no need for that.”

“I ain't going to prison,” she said, and he could see the fear in her eyes. That wasn't good – fear made people do stupid things.

He spread his hands, trying to keep himself non-threatening. “Then your best bet is not to stab me. The police frown upon that kind of thing.”

She snarled and lunged forward, and he jumped back again.

“John!” shouted a voice, and he looked over to see Sherlock watching from the street, still on the wrong side of the fence.

Taking his attention away from the woman was a bad idea. She slashed at him again and he stepped back, into a gravestone that he fell backwards over. She threw herself at him before he'd even caught his breath, and everything got a bit rough and tumble as he desperately tried to keep her knife away from himself, holding on to her wrist whilst she fought against him like a wild creature, all flailing limbs and no coordination.

She was tenacious, though, and John was just beginning to think that he was going to have to seriously hurt her to get her off him when something grabbed her and pulled her off him, throwing her to one side as if she weighed almost nothing. The knife flew from her hand as she hit the ground.

Sherlock stood over John, looking as furious as an avenging angel, then the anger fell off his face, and was replaced with concern. “John!” he said, dropping to his knees. “Are you okay? She didn't hurt you, did she? Say you're okay!”

“I'm fine,” said John, sitting up and trying to get his breath back.

The woman pulled herself up as well, took one look at the two of them, and ran off towards the fence. “Sherlock,” said John, pointing after her. “Go on, I'm fine.”

Sherlock didn't even turn to look at her. “We'll get her later,” he said with confidence. He put a hand on John's arm. “You're sure you're unharmed?”

He looked a bit wild around the edges and John wondered if he'd managed to scare him. It was rather nice to see how much his safety meant to Sherlock, even if John didn't particularly like that expression on Sherlock's face. “Very sure,” he said as reassuringly as he could.

Sherlock put his hand on John's chest, tracing his fingers over the rip in his coat.

“My coat's not,” added John, “but I am.”

Sherlock gave him a frantic look, then put his hand around John's neck and bent in to kiss him, desperation making him clumsy. John froze with surprise, completely taken aback. He'd never let himself believe this might happen, tried his hardest to keep even the thought of it from crossing his mind. He'd thought Sherlock had made it clear that he wasn't interested. Apparently, he'd been wrong.

John's hesitation made Sherlock pull back, his wild-eyed look morphing into 'oh god,what have I done?' John liked that expression even less than the worried one, and he couldn't let a kiss go without responding properly – what if he never got a second chance at it? He pulled Sherlock back in and kissed him, letting his lips give his answer to Sherlock's unspoken question. After a second, Sherlock relaxed against him, putting his arms around John to hold him close.

John wasn't sure how long they stayed there, just kissing in a graveyard. Sherlock's phone started to ring, but Sherlock ignored it, so John did as well. A minute later, his own went off. He let out a sigh against Sherlock's mouth and pulled away.

“John,” said Sherlock in protest as John pulled his phone out. John pressed a quick kiss against his lips to quiet him, then answered his phone.

“Hello?”

It was Lestrade. “You got Sherlock with you?”

“Yes,” said John, meeting Sherlock's eyes. “I've got Sherlock.”

Sherlock gave him a beaming smile.

“Right, well, tell him we've got everyone and we're taking them to the Yard,” said Lestrade.

“He says they've got everyone,” John said to Sherlock.

The smile was wiped off Sherlock's face and he grabbed the phone from John. “No, you haven't,” he said down it. “Of course you haven't. What about the courier? She tried to stab John!”

There was the sound of an exasperated question down the phone. John was unable to keep the smile off his face as he sat back and listened to Sherlock explain with as much condescension as was possible about the woman. 

Apparently he'd been wrong about how things were between him and Sherlock, and that Sherlock didn't want anything more. He'd never been so pleased to be wrong in his life.

****

Lestrade came out to the graveyard to pick up the knife for evidence, and to make Sherlock give him a proper explanation of what had happened.

“Wait,” he said when Sherlock got to the point where he and John had split up at the graveyard fence. “You went around the outside?”

“I thought I could cut her off,” said Sherlock.

Lestrade looked around at the graveyard, clearly measuring just how much further it was to go around the outside than cut across the middle. “Just how fast do you think you can run?”

Sherlock let out a frustrated breath. “Must you question me on everything? I want to get through this before you die of old age.”

Lestrade raised an eyebrow, but let him continue. 

The moment Lestrade was finally satisfied enough to let them go, Sherlock hustled John into a taxi and directed it to Baker Street. He was silent as they drove, staring out of the window rather than look at John. 

The atmosphere in the cab started to feel rather tense as John began to run over what had happened earlier, wondering if he could trust his perception of it. Some frantic kissing because he'd come close to death was a long way from what he deep-down knew he wanted, and Sherlock had made his thoughts on things like romance and love, and even sex, very clear, several times. John began to think that the most likely outcome when they got home would be a brush off from Sherlock before he locked himself in his bedroom to get away from the situation.

Just as John was thinking that, Sherlock reached out across the seat between them and took John's hand. “You're thinking too loudly.”

John looked down at their hands and smiled. He pushed all his thoughts to one side in favour of concentrating on the feel of Sherlock's hand in his, and told himself not to be an idiot. There was no point in over-thinking what might or might not happen when they got it until it actually happened.

What did happen when they got in was that Sherlock took John's face in both his hands and kissed him very thoroughly. John reached out and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist as he kissed him back, thinking that he could very, very easily get used to this.

“See?” said Sherlock when they finally separated. “Love, honour and obey.”

John managed a chuckle. “That's a bit quick, don't you think?”

“Not at all,” said Sherlock, running his fingers over the crown of John's head and down to his neck, as if memorising every bump and dip of his skull. “I know you. I know your emotional responses.” He leaned in and kissed John again. “And you know me,” he added. “You know I obey you more often than I obey anyone else. And the rest, as well.”

That was a lot closer to a declaration of love than John would have ever expected from Sherlock. He couldn't keep the giddy smile off his face. Of course Sherlock wouldn't approach something like this slowly. He jumped into everything else with both feet; why would this be different?

“Make me some tea, then,” he said, trying to make the tone less serious. Sherlock might jump straight in, but John was accustomed to taking these things slowly, at least until he had a bit of a feel for how it was going to settle into place.

Sherlock flashed him a grin. “I hear and obey, oh master,” he said, dipping his head for a final peck against John's lips before he twirled away to the kitchen. A moment later he was back, but only to sweep up the skull and take it off to his room.

John blinked at the space on the mantelpiece, then said, “Right,” quietly to himself and collapsed onto the sofa.

Sherlock did make tea but John didn't get to taste any of it, because as soon as Sherlock had brought it back into the sitting room, he settled on the sofa next to John and resumed kissing him. He pushed him back against the arm, nestling in as if he would be content to stay there all night, kissing John as slowly and thoroughly as John had ever been kissed. John just held on and gave in to it.

It felt like hours later when they finally pulled apart and Sherlock burrowed down to let his head rest on John's shoulder. John glanced at the cups of tea on the coffee table, almost certainly stone-cold by now, and thought about how reaching for his mug would mean dislodging Sherlock. Definitely not worth it.

“I suppose I should point out that I meant it earlier when I said I don't do 'shagging',” said Sherlock. “And I doubt I'd be suited to the more traditional forms of romance. You already know most of my other so-called faults.”

John blinked up at the ceiling, his kiss-befuddled brain taking a moment to catch up. When it did, he let out a low laugh. “Potential lovers should know the worst about each other?” he asked.

Sherlock let out an exasperated huff that tickled against John's neck. “I've just said that we won't be lovers in the physical sense, John.”

John let that thought settle, frowning. “Wait, you mean no sex at all?”

“Yes, as I've said twice now,” said Sherlock with the testiness he got whenever he had to repeat himself. “I'm not interested in any sort of sexual activity.”

John decided not to point out that usually, when people said they didn't 'do shagging', they were saying they weren't interested in casual sex and were looking for a deeper emotional connection, not that they wanted to remain celibate. Instead, he tried to reconcile the kissing they had been doing, and the erection it had given him, with the idea that he wasn't going to get to take Sherlock to bed like he had been starting to think about.

“Oh,” he said.

The tone of his voice made Sherlock tense up and the expression on his face began to shut down. “I hope that will not affect your decision to take this step with me.”

“No, of course not,”said John immediately, without even stopping to consider it. Now that they'd crossed this line, he couldn't ever imagine going back to how they had been. No, he'd take whatever Sherlock was willing to offer, even if it wasn't quite as much as he might want, if given the choice.

Sherlock didn't seem entirely reassured by John's denial, because he didn't relax. “John, if you feel this will result in tension between us, I would prefer that you tell me,and we return to just being friends, rather than let the issue fester and-”

“No,” said John, clutching at Sherlock's arm. “No, Sherlock. We're not- I don't want to go back. I'm not sure we could, anyway – that would just lead to a different kind of tension. I just- I need a moment for it to sink in, okay?”

Sherlock finally let himself relax back against John. “Right,” he said. 

There was silence for a minute or two. John thought about how he had Sherlock sprawled all over him, warm and solid and apparently content to stay there for a while, and about just how impossible this would have seemed yesterday. Even earlier today at the abandoned house he had looked at Sherlock's silhouette against the window and thought how untouchable he was. And now he was, apparently, John's. There was no way John was giving that up. After all, it wasn't as if he had really got a lot of sex as a single man.

“I would if I could, you know,” said Sherlock. “If I was going to do that with anyone, it would be you, but I'm just not made like that.” He paused, then added, “I wasn't even sure I would like kissing before today. I am glad to be proved wrong on that one.”

Sherlock hadn't kissed anyone before? John was taken aback by that, but only for a moment before he realised what the correct response was to such a statement when it was said like that, in an almost uncertain voice. He cradled his hand around Sherlock's neck and pulled him up into another kiss.

Sherlock responded immediately with a pleased-sounding hum and John settled in to the important business of catching Sherlock up on a lifetime's worth of kisses. He'd worry about how to make a relationship work without sex later. Much later.


	2. Chapter Two

John went shopping the next morning and came back to hear Mycroft's voice echoing down from the flat, uncharacteristically loud and angry.

“What were you thinking? If I knew you were in a graveyard, then others will as well!” he shouted, and John paused where he was on the stairs. He'd never heard Mycroft raise his voice like that – his anger usually came in the form of icy glares and deadly hisses.

“It's the middle of July,” came Sherlock's voice. “What are they going to do about it?”

“It won't always be the middle of July!” said Mycroft. “Try to remember that you are not just risking yourself when you pull these stunts. What on earth possessed you to go in there in the first place?”

There was a pause and John began to quietly climb the stairs again, holding the shopping bags so they wouldn't rustle.

“John was in danger,” said Sherlock in a quiet voice. There was another pause, and then a third voice let out a rolling laugh.

“Well, that explains the kissing.”

John stopped again. Who else was there, and how did they know about that already? Did Mycroft have their flat bugged? John wouldn't put it past him, but surely Sherlock wouldn't put up with that?

“Kissing?” repeated Mycroft. “Good God, Sherlock! What were you thinking?”

“That we came to London for a reason, so that we could pursue the things that interested us. John interests me, and I see no reason why I shouldn't pursue him.”

“Don't you?” asked Mycroft. “I'm sure I could list several.” John scowled to himself. He wasn't letting Mycroft have a say on this one, and he highly doubted Sherlock would either. What did it matter to him who Sherlock kissed, anyway?

“Oh, leave him be, Mycroft,” said the unidentified voice. “You're not going to persuade him against it. Besides, he's right. The point of all this was to gain our freedom, whatever form that might take.”

“Thank you,” said Sherlock.

“This is completely ill-advised,” said Mycroft. “I will not interfere but, Sherlock, do try to be sensible.”

Sherlock snorted. “Sensible. Where is the fun in that?”

John couldn't resist a grin at that and started climbing again. He made sure to tread heavily enough to be heard, and silence fell from the flat. He pushed inside to find Mycroft and Sherlock both looking at him, but no sign of whoever the third person had been. John blinked and glanced around. Had he gone out the window?

Mycroft had levelled a stern glare at John when he'd come in, which John returned with a grin. “Oh, hello, Mycroft,” he said. “Has Sherlock offered you tea?”

“John!” said Sherlock, sounding overjoyed at just the sight of him, and strode forward to take his face in both hands and kiss him. “Welcome home.”

John blinked, surprised by the gesture, and couldn't formulate a response immediately. Should he start to expect that whenever he came home, or just when Mycroft was there to be wound up by it?

Mycroft made a noise that was a tangled mixture of disgust, exasperation and annoyance. “Must you?” he asked.

“Most definitely,” said Sherlock, pulling back from John to give Mycroft a self-satisfied smirk. “Are you leaving yet? You have what you came for.”

John noticed for the first time that Mycroft was holding Sherlock's skull. “You're taking Sherrinford?”

Mycroft looked at him, then back at Sherlock. “You told him?” he said incredulously.

Sherlock looked uncomfortable. “Just his name,” he said. “He kept calling him Yorrick.”

“I see,” said Mycroft. “A fellow of infinite jest. I suppose that would only fit if you didn't require the jests to be humorous.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don't be petty,” he said, then turned to John. “I told you Sherrinford belongs to my family. Mycroft is going to have him for a few weeks.”

John stared at them. “You have joint custody of a skull?!” He shook his head. “Of course you do. You're Holmeses – you probably have the whole skeleton somewhere, divided between the two of you.” Shared out bone by bone between them, and the skull changing hands to keep it fair, like other siblings share out sweets or toys.

Both Mycroft and Sherlock tensed at that for some reason.

“Not precisely,” said Sherlock. “The rest of him is elsewhere.”

“Sherlock,” said Mycroft in a warning voice. 

Sherlock scowled. “Go away, go on. Go to your blasted exhibition and leave us alone.”

Mycroft sent him one last glower then left with the skull tucked under his arm.

John turned back to Sherlock, who had started to beam at him the moment Mycroft had gone, as if he'd already forgotten his brother's existence. “Was there someone else here?” John asked. “I could have sworn I heard another voice.”

Sherlock's smile disappeared. “Only those you saw,” he said.

John frowned. Had he mistaken Mycroft or Sherlock for another person? No, that didn't fit with the conversation he'd heard. He began to feel irritated at Sherlock for still keeping secrets and playing games – was that going to ever stop, or was John going to spend the rest of his life in the dark about half of what Sherlock got up to?

The thought annoyed him enough to prompt another question. “Did you just kiss me to upset your brother?”

Sherlock tipped his head to one side. “In a way,” he said. “I can't pretend that motivation didn't prompt it, but I also can't swear I wouldn't have kissed you anyway.”

“Right,” said John with a sigh. More games. Brilliant. He started to take the shopping through to the kitchen, but Sherlock stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“It's just- You came in, and you were just so _John_ \- eyes creased from squinting against the sun because you never remember your sunglasses; one bag with only one item in it while the other is overflowing, which means you got some things for Mrs. Hudson that you've already dropped off for her; tension line here-” he traced a finger between John's eyebrows, “- which means you've tried to use the self-service check-outs again, because you stubbornly refuse to let technology best you - and it just seemed so ridiculous that Mycroft thought I shouldn't be kissing you.”

John blinked. “Ah, right,” he said. How was he meant to react to a statement like that? “Well. Good.”

“That expression makes me want to kiss you as well,” observed Sherlock.

John knew exactly what to do with that kind of statement. “Go on, then.”

Sherlock kissed him again, more carefully and slower than before, and John happily kissed him back, wishing he didn't still have his hands full with shopping so that he could put his arms around him.

The doorbell rang and John let out a long sigh as he pulled away from Sherlock's lips. “Why are there always so many interruptions in this place?” he asked.

“Presumably just to infuriate us,” said Sherlock, letting go of John and allowing him to go past to the kitchen, where he finally managed to put the bags down.

The doorbell rang again, then the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat opened. “One day, you'll actually answer the door yourself and she'll die of shock,” said John.

Sherlock scoffed. “It's only Lestrade, and he doesn't have a case for me. No point in getting excited.”

John tried to work out how he could tell that just from the sound of a doorbell, but as usual he pulled a blank. “Right,” he muttered, starting to put the shopping away. “Of course.”

A minute later, there were footsteps up the stairs and John heard the sitting room door open. “Good morning,” said Lestrade, sounding cheerful enough that even John could tell he hadn't had to deal with a dead body yet today, and so didn't have a new case.

“It would be if you people would just leave us alone,” said Sherlock. “You're here to take John.”

“I won't ask how you knew that,” said Lestrade, and John went back out into the sitting room.

“Hello, Greg,” he said. “What do you need me for?”

“We traced the fingerprints from the knife last night to a Ruth Tamworth. On record for a couple of minor drug offences, but she's claiming she was watching Strictly last night. Can you come in and do an identity parade for us?”

“Of course,” said John. “Just let me put the shopping away.”

Sherlock let out a groan of frustration and tipped backwards onto the sofa. “John, I thought we had plans. You can't run off with a policeman now.”

John blinked and tried to remember what plans he might be talking about. “Did we?”

“Of course we did,” said Sherlock. “We were going to spend some more time kissing.”

John felt his face go pink as Lestrade stared at Sherlock for a moment, then turned to give John an amused, interesting look. “Oh, I'd hate to get in the way of anything like that,” he said.

“It's fine,” said John, turning back to the kitchen. “It's nothing that we can't do later.”

“I thought we were going to do it now _and_ later,” said Sherlock sulkily.

“I'm afraid you'll have to settle for just later,” said John, trying to find somewhere in the fridge to put the butter where it wasn't going to get contaminated by human remains.

Sherlock let out an almighty sigh, then leapt back to his feet. “Fine, then,” he said. “I'm coming with you.”

“You'll find it boring,” warned Lestrade. “Lots of waiting around.”

“I'm sure John will keep me entertained,” said Sherlock. John rolled his eyes and wondered if there was any point in telling himself that he wouldn't let Sherlock snog him in the middle of Scotland Yard. He gave up on trying to put the shopping away when he opened the bread bin and found the skeleton of a bat, and left the kitchen again. The rest could wait until they got home, when he could make Sherlock free up at least some space for food rather than biohazards.

Sherlock looked at him. “And then we can go to lunch afterwards – I thought we might start a new tradition.”

“What's this one?” asked John, putting his coat on. “Lunch every time I have to do an identity parade? Every time Mycroft comes over and is annoying?”

“No,” said Sherlock, swirling his own coat on. “Lunch every time it's the middle of the day and I want to spend some time with you. I suspect it will be a reasonably frequent tradition.” He left the room and swooped off down the stairs, leaving John blinking behind him. 

Lestrade raised his eyebrows at him, and John felt himself starting to go pink again. He shrugged at him and set off after Sherlock. This new tradition sounded like it was going to be the best so far.

****

Despite how new to the whole realm of romance Sherlock clearly was, the change in their relationship went as smoothly as the beginning of their friendship, when they had gone from being strangers to giggling over murder in little more than twenty-four hours. Sherlock didn't become any less prone to disappearing for days at a time, or refrain from strange and often macabre experiments in areas of the flat that John really would prefer were kept clean, but he did start to find time to text John if he was likely to be gone more than twelve hours, and whenever John complained loudly enough about finding a dead snake on the sofa, he cleared it away before he took John to dinner.

They fell into new habits. On those nights when Sherlock was so engrossed in an experiment or case that he was clearly not going to sleep until his body passed out, John went up to his own room alone at bedtime. Sometimes Sherlock would slip in and join him much, much later, and sometimes he'd wake up still alone and come downstairs to find Sherlock almost exactly as he had left him. On other nights, when they both went to bed at the same time, they'd go to Sherlock's room and curl up together, lazily kissing until they fell asleep.

And yes, okay, there were definitely times when they'd been pressed together in bed kissing for what felt like hours while Sherlock endeavoured to get as close to him as he could, when John was so hard that he thought he'd take just about anyone up on the chance to actually have an orgasm. But once he'd slipped off to the bathroom for a wank and come back to find Sherlock sprawled out waiting for him, he couldn't imagine ever wanting anyone else.

Sherlock would pull him in close, press a kiss to his cheek, and start to explain how it was possible to kill someone with a staple gun if you got the angle right, or how quickly maggots could burrow into a corpse, and John would wonder why he thought a relationship with Sherlock Holmes would be anything like a normal one; the lack of sex was just the tip of the iceberg. And, well, John had never been that good at 'normal' relationships anyway. They'd always seemed to reach a stage where he was just walking through the routines, wondering when something exciting was going to happen. Impossible to do that with Sherlock, when any day might bring one or both of them facing down a gun, or chasing a criminal across rooftops, or a thousand other activities that John would never have got caught up in on his own, and which he couldn't imagine his life without now.

He began to think dangerous thoughts about _made for each other_ and _forever_ , thoughts that didn't take into account Sherlock's tendency to get bored of things and abandon them, or even how little John really knew about Sherlock. 

He might spend almost all his time with the man, but there were still gaping black holes of knowledge surrounding anything about his past, or his family. John tried to tell himself that the past was unimportant and that what really mattered to them was the future, but it was hard to believe that when the slightest hint of a question about it made Sherlock shut down completely, and occasionally even drove him to disappear for a day or so.

Towards the end of August, a dog uncovered a skeleton on Hampstead Heath. It had clearly been buried there for several decades, long enough for all traces of flesh to have long since rotted away. Lestrade called Sherlock in to take a look before they moved it to the mortuary, and John went along, already trying to come up with a good title for the blog entry. _The Dog's Bones. The Hampstead Stiff._

When they got there, Sherlock wasted no time on crouching over the skeleton, going over all of it with his magnifying glass, then ducking his head to stare into the eye holes.

“Look at him,” said Donovan with disgust. “Look how excited he is by some poor bastard's bones. He looks like a kid with a new toy. You'd think he grew up playing with the things.”

“I did,” said Sherlock absently, measuring some mark on the breastbone with the end of a pen. “My mother made me a xylophone from a ribcage for my eighth birthday.”

He said it so matter-of-factly that for a moment even John was taken in, then he caught sight of the look on Donovan's face and he couldn't restrain a snigger. Sherlock turned to glance at him, then gave him a wicked grin and tapped out a rhythm on a few of the skeleton's ribs with the pen. It took John a few bars to recognise the theme to The Empire Strikes Back, which they'd watched together a few nights before. He had no idea how Sherlock knew which ribs would produce the right kinds of notes, but despite the intense morbidity of it and the disrespect it showed for the skeleton, he couldn't help cracking up.

“Oh my god,” said Donovan. “You two both need locking up.”

Lestrade strolled over from where he had been talking to the forensics team and took in John's giggles, Sherlock's fiendish look, and Donovan's obvious disgust. “I hope whatever's going on here is appropriate for a crime scene.”

“It's most definitely not,” said Donovan.

“It's also not a crime scene,” said Sherlock, standing up. “This was an accidental death.”

Lestrade looked back down at the skeleton. “It was?” he asked.

“Obviously,” said Sherlock, striding towards John, apparently already having lost interest. “Once the medical examiner has gone over the skeleton, you'll have proof of that.” He took John's hands in his. “Lunch?” he suggested.

John smiled at him. “It is the middle of the day,” he agreed.

“And I want to spend time with you,” added Sherlock, then pulled him away from the scene without bothering to say goodbye to the police. John glanced back at them to see Donovan's scowl and Lestrade's bemused look and met both with what was almost certainly a smug grin. It was possible that Sherlock was eroding his sense of normal far quicker than John was managing to get him to avoid pissing people off or freaking them out. He clung tighter to Sherlock's hand and wondered if that should bother him.

****

John carefully avoided all mention of Halloween to Sherlock but as it grew closer he could see Sherlock getting twitchy. He refused to go to the shops with John once they'd started to put up decorations and even turned down a couple of cases from Lestrade that were going to take them to places where they might run into fake cobwebs and plastic bats. John thought that was a bit petty, but didn't say anything. No point in risking a tantrum over something so unimportant.

On the twenty-ninth, Mrs. Hudson put a large pumpkin on the table in hallway. After that, Sherlock stopped leaving the flat at all.

John had resigned himself to an extremely difficult couple of days, shut in the flat with a twitchy, irritated Sherlock, but to his great surprise, Mycroft came around on the evening of the thirtieth. When Sherlock emerged from his room to great him, he was carrying an overnight bag and his laptop.

“You're going away?” asked John in surprise.

Sherlock looked at him. “Of course,” he said, as if it should have been obvious. “I'll be back on the First. Try not to upset the test tubes in the sink – the substance in them is liable to eat away metal.”

“Right,” said John, not sure what to do with either of those statements. Why on earth would Sherlock willingly go away with Mycroft? And why the hell did he always feel the urge to leave dangerous chemicals right in John's way? “Going somewhere nice?”

“Not at all,” said Sherlock with a deep scowl.

“It is a family obligation,” said Mycroft.

“Oh, right,” said John. He hadn't thought they had any more family than each other.

“It's going to be unspeakably tedious,” said Sherlock. “I suspect that when I get back, I shall want to spend rather a long time kissing you.”

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably, so John gave Sherlock a big grin. “I'll put it in my diary,” he said.

“See that you do,” said Sherlock, then shot Mycroft a sideways look that told John what was coming, dropped his bag (but not his laptop, John noted), stepped forward and swept John up in a kiss that would be worthy of a Hollywood blockbuster. For a moment he was worried he was going to get dipped. “Just to tide me over,” explained Sherlock when he finally moved away.

John pulled him down into another kiss, holding him as closely as he could. “And that one's for me,” he said.

Sherlock gave him a bright smile, then glanced over at where Mycroft was looking even more discomforted. “Problem?” he asked.

Mycroft let out a sigh. “It would be if it was February.”

For some reason, that made Sherlock glare at him.

“John,” said Mycroft, ignoring the glare, “it is possible that you will have a visitor, or visitors, over the next day or so, asking after Sherlock.” 

“Oh, you worry too much, Mycroft,” said Sherlock.

“You have been exceptionally careless this year,” said Mycroft. “You know you have. It is entirely possible that they will have located this flat.” He looked back at John. “If anyone does come by, it would be appreciated if you told them nothing.”

Sherlock's attention came back to John. “Nothing at all,” he added. “It would be best if they thought you barely knew me at all. We're just flatmates who spend very little time together.”

John raised his eyebrows. “What? Sherlock, what's going on?”

“Nothing,” said Sherlock, stepping back and picking up his bag again. “Nothing is 'going on', it's just unwanted meddling. And they probably won't even come.”

Mycroft glanced at his watch. “Sherlock, it is time we went.”

Sherlock nodded. “See you in a couple of days, John.”

“Yeah, goodbye,” said John, wondering if he'd ever get an explanation for this, or if he should just add it to the 'Sherlock likes to be mysterious' list.

Mycroft started down the stairs and Sherlock began to follow him, then darted back and pressed another kiss against John's lips. “It won't be long,” he said, and was gone.

John was left standing in their sitting room with the feeling that there was far more to this than just a family obligation.

****

Baker Street was very quiet without Sherlock. John spent most of his time catching up on his reading, telling himself that it was good to have the place to himself for a bit. He shouldn't miss Sherlock after only a day, surely?

There were a handful of trick-or-treaters on the evening of Halloween, but John let Mrs. Hudson deal with them. As the evening wore on, he found himself concentrating less and less on his book, instead just staring off into space. The fifth time he realised his eyes were on the space on the mantelpiece where the skull had been before Mycroft took it, he gave up on the book and went to make tea.

While the kettle was boiling, the doorbell rang. He glanced at the clock with a frown. Gone ten o'clock – that seemed a bit late for trick-or-treaters. He heard Mrs. Hudson's footsteps head down the hall to the door, there was a brief pause, and then there were footsteps heading up the stairs.

He remembered what Mycroft had said about visitors and found himself straightening his posture. Sherlock had asked him to pretend he barely knew him. Well, he could certainly do that, given how many mysteries there still were around Sherlock and that he really didn't know where he and Mycroft had gone to, or why.

The visitor didn't bother knocking, he just opened the door and came straight in. John stared for a moment, taken aback by his unusual appearance. He was even taller and thinner than Sherlock, wearing a pinstripe suit that only emphasised how gangly he was, but it was his head that made John start. Whatever make-up he'd used to achieve the effect of a bare skull, it was astonishingly lifelike.

“Good evening,” the man said as if he hadn't just burst in unannounced. “I am looking for Sherlock Holmes.”

“He's not here,” said John as shortly as he could.

“I can tell that,” said the man, looking around the flat with an interest that made John want to throw him out. “This is very nice,” he said and stalked over to the mantelpiece, stopping to examine the framed bats. “Do you know where he is?”

“No,” said John. “I've no idea.” The man swept his finger over the spot where the skull usually sat, then examined his finger. “Look, I was about to go to bed.”

“This early? On Halloween?” asked the man, turning on his heel. “You'll miss the witching hour!”

“I'm not really interested in any of that,” he said, wondering if the sole reason Sherlock was avoiding this bloke because he was overly-obsessed with Halloween. It didn't seem outside the realm of possibility.

“Well, that's rather dull of you,” said the man. “Just like Sherlock. You're sure you have absolutely no idea where he is? Or either of his brothers? It's very important I find them – family business, you know.”

“Brothers?” repeated John. Sherlock had more than one?

“Yes, yes, the infamous Holmes brothers,” said the man, striding back across the room to the window and twitching open the curtain so that the moon shone in. “Sherrinford, Mycroft, and little Sherlock.”

Sherrinford? John felt his eyes go wide. The skull belonged to Sherlock's brother? He and Mycroft shared custody of the skull of their dead brother? Jesus Christ.

“I didn't even know he had brothers,” he managed. “If he's with them now, then I have no idea where.”

The man gazed at him for a very long moment, then let out a sigh. “Oh, very well. Tell Sherlock, when he decides to appear again, that Jack is starting to get irritated about all this now.”

There was more than a hint of a threat in his voice, and John glared. “Right, fine,” he said. “Now get out.”

Jack rolled his eyes and headed for the door, stepping over furniture with his long legs in the same way that Sherlock did occasionally. “You really should learn to enjoy this holiday a bit more,” he said. “Nothing wrong with a good scare.”

John didn't bother giving a response to that, holding open the door for Jack and then shutting it firmly behind him. Was everyone associated with Sherlock's past weird as hell? What kind of childhood did he have? The kind that ended with shared custody of his brother's skull, apparently.

John sat down on the sofa and rubbed his hands through his hair, not sure how he should be reacting to that. He remembered Sherlock talking to the skull, moving it around the room, treating it a little like a small child would treat a favourite toy. Once or twice he'd come in to find it propped in his chair while Sherlock had been playing the violin at it. At the time, he'd just been amused by Sherlock's obvious need for an audience at all times, but now the whole thing took on creepier overtones. 

He wondered when, and how, Sherrinford had died, and what kind of relationship Sherlock had had with him when he'd been alive. Then he found himself wondering about Sherlock's parents, who he assumed were dead as well, although neither Sherlock nor Mycroft had ever mentioned them. He wanted to learn everything he could, until he had a clear picture of Sherlock's life from the moment he was born to the moment he met John, but he was all too aware that he was unlikely to ever get that. When Sherlock didn't want to talk about something, it was impossible to get it out of him. His childhood was likely to remain a secret forever.

****

Sherlock arrived home at lunchtime the next day. He came in with a scowl, already talking at John before he could see him, apparently confident that he'd be waiting for him. “I don't know how Mycroft manages to get more insufferable with every year that passes.”

He was carrying both his bag and his laptop case in one hand, and the other was cradling the skull to his chest. John riveted his eyes on it and he wondered if he'd be able to see a family resemblance in the cheekbones, if he looked closely enough.

“Someone called Jack came by last night,” he said carefully.

Sherlock looked caught, as if John had said that Moriarty had popped by. His grip on the skull tightened and for a moment it almost looked as if he was going to turn around and leave again.

After a moment though, the look passed and was replaced by irritation. “There's another insufferable bastard,” he said. “I take it you told him to piss off.”

“He said he was looking for the Holmes brothers,” said John. “Sherrinford, Mycroft, and little Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked outraged. “'Little'?! I haven't been little in years!”

John directed his gaze pointedly at the skull. “Sherrinford, Sherlock?”

“Ah,” said Sherlock quietly, as John's tone registered with him. He looked down at the skull, then dropped his bag and laptop on the sofa and crossed to the mantelpiece, where he carefully set it down, angling it so that it was looking out at as much of the room as possible.

John let out an impatient sigh. “Sherlock, is that your brother's skull?”

“Yes,” he said. “I did tell you it had been in the family longer than I had.”

“I didn't think you meant that it _was_ family!” said John. “Christ, Sherlock, you must know that's more than a little weird.”

“Oh, why should I care about 'weird'?” asked Sherlock, moving to collapse into his chair, opposite John. “It's what Sherrinford wanted. Graves are so boring.”

“Right,” said John. “Of course they are. And so you keep him where you can talk to him, and play to him, and occasionally let Mycroft borrow him to- what? So he can talk to him as well? Sherlock, seriously, you must see that's not healthy!”

“Why isn't it?” asked Sherlock. “If I had some other memento of my brother that I took out whenever I wanted to remember him, wouldn't that be normal? And what would remind me of him more than his skull? You have your father's watch, don't think I haven't noticed you looking at it whenever you're reminded of him.”

“That's not the same,” said John, but he could already tell he was going to lose this one. Sherlock had a way of twisting what should have been insane behaviour until it sounded like the only logical thing to do.

“No,” agreed Sherlock. “It's better. Just because he's dead doesn't mean he has to be put away and forgotten about.” He looked over at the skull as if expecting it to add something to the conversation. “He would hate that.”

John rubbed his hands over his face. “Sherlock,” he said as gently as he could. “He's gone. He's not here to care what happens to his skull.”

That was entirely the wrong thing to say if the look on Sherlock's face was anything to go by. “This is not negotiable, John, and I am not interested in your opinions on it,” he hissed, then abruptly stood up. “I'm going to unpack. I'd prefer it if you didn't bother talking about this to me again.” He picked up his bag and swept off in the direction of his bedroom.

John watched him go, then let out a sigh, looking back at the skull. It was probably just his imagination, but it looked amused. “Well, that went well,” he said under his breath. If anything, the skull only looked more amused.

He made tea for them both and took Sherlock's cup in to his bedroom. Sherlock didn't spare him a glance, focussing all his attention on his unpacking. John set the cup down on his bedside table, watched him for a few minutes, then said, “I'm sorry if I upset you.”

Sherlock shook out a shirt, then dropped it on the bed. He didn't bother responding.

“It was just a bit of a surprise,” tried John. “I didn't even know you'd had another brother, and then it turned out he'd been in my sitting room all this time.”

“Mycroft and I have an older brother called Sherrinford,” Sherlock said without emotion. “He died several years ago, and I am looking after his skull. There, now you have all the facts.”

That wasn't even close to all the facts. “How did he die?” asked John.

“I'm not interested in discussing that,” said Sherlock, pulling out his wash bag and heading into the bathroom with it.

John waited for him to come back, sitting on Sherlock's bed and cradling his tea, wondering what else he could say. When Sherlock came back out, he fixed John with an irritated stare that made it clear he wasn't welcome. John sighed and went to drink the rest of his tea in the sitting room.

****

Several hours passed before Sherlock emerged from his bedroom. When he did, he went straight to his violin and spent a couple of hours playing, all while ignoring John. There was something slightly pointed about the way he did it, and it took John several tunes to realise that Sherlock was directing his playing in the direction of the mantelpiece. He sat, staring at his book and listening to the music flow around him, and thought about how oddly innocent Sherlock could be about emotional matters and what an impact it must have had on a younger version of him to lose a brother.

When Sherlock's playing finally drew to an end, John set down his book. “I believe I was promised rather a lot of kissing when you returned,” he said.

“I've changed my mind about that,” said Sherlock, adjusting something on his violin.

Right, he'd have to try something else, then. “That's a shame,” said John. Sherlock glared at him, but John kept going. “Perhaps we could go for dinner instead, then.”

Sherlock returned to staring at his violin. “There's nothing for me to apologise for,” he said through gritted teeth.

“No,” agreed John. “I thought I might treat you, this time.”

That made Sherlock look up. There was an infinite pause where he just stared at John, then he glanced over at the skull. “We're going to Claridge's, then,” he said.

“If we can get a table,” agreed John, already mentally budgeting for that. If Sherlock thought this was worthy of a Claridge's dinner rather than just the usual one at Angelo's, John must have really upset him.

“Of course we'll get a table,” said Sherlock. “Just ask Mycroft to sort it out.” He raised his bow again and launched into another tune, one which was a particular favourite of John's. As John pulled out his phone to text Mycroft, he realised that Sherlock was aiming it at both John and the mantelpiece. Clearly, he was forgiven. Now all he had to do was work out what to do with his new knowledge.

****

John didn't mention Sherrinford again for a couple of weeks, although he did start to notice just how often Sherlock glanced over at his skull as if including him in the conversation, or became uncomfortable with snogging John in the sitting room, as if they really were in front of a member of his family, and dragged him off to his bedroom instead. Not that John minded that, although his body was still stuck on associating kissing in bed with sex, which made it even harder to keep his hands from wandering too far in the wrong direction.

He had become adept at pulling away before arousal built up too much though, rolling over onto his back, staring at the ceiling, and taking deep breaths to calm himself.

One afternoon when he did it, Sherlock propped himself up on his hand so that he could watch John's face as he tried to pull himself back under control. “You find being denied this difficult,” he remarked.

“Yeah, well, it's how I'm wired,” said John.

Sherlock's lips twitched downwards. “Is it-” he started, then hesitated uncharacteristically. “Is it proving to be too difficult?”

John turned over and grabbed for his hand. “No,” he said. “No, it's just- I just need a moment sometimes.”

Sherlock nodded stiffly. “Whatever will help,” he said. He glanced down at their joined hands as he admitted, “I don't really understand what it's like for you.”

John choked out a laugh. “Yeah, I got that,” he said, eyes dipping pointedly to Sherlock's crotch, which he had never once felt give even the slightest twitch, no matter how long they kissed or how close they got while they were doing it.

That made it much easier, in fact. If Sherlock had given even the slightest sign of arousal, John would have found it almost impossible not to push at getting Sherlock to give it a try before he completely dismissed it. When Sherlock was completely and obviously uninterested in that sort of thing, just imagining doing that made John feel uncomfortably ashamed of himself. Sherlock's boundaries were clear and John had to respect that.

Sherlock didn't give any sign of embarrassment at John's implication. “That's how I'm wired,” he said, quoting John's words back to him.

“Yeah,” said John, moving in closer to Sherlock again now that his body had calmed down a bit. “It's a shame we're not wired the same, but I suppose we are in other ways.”

“Most people don't giggle after hostage situations,” agreed Sherlock.

“He used overhand knots to tie me up!” said John. “Was I really meant to take him seriously?”

Sherlock snorted a laugh. “My point entirely,” he said, and moved in to resume their kissing. John happily let him.

****

Mycroft came over a couple of days later, and John opened the door to him. “I take it you've come over to see your brothers,” he said, emphasising the plural.

Mycroft paused, pursing his lips and glaring over John's shoulder at Sherlock.

“Don't look at me,” said Sherlock. “Jack told him.”

Mycroft's black look didn't falter. “Jack wouldn't have been able to tell him anything if you'd been more careful,” he said, then swept past John to the mantelpiece, where he touched the top of Sherrinford's skull as if in greeting. “We really should be considering relocation.”

“No!” said Sherlock immediately. “He can't come back until next year, and we'll go elsewhere again then.”

Mycroft made a face that said he didn't agree, but didn't bother to reply. Clearly they had already had this argument.

“Am I ever going to get to find out who he is?” asked John. “He's not more family, is he? A cousin from the branch of the family where they use normal first names?”

“How do you know Jack isn't short for something not 'normal'?” asked Sherlock.

“He's not family,” said Mycroft before John's brain could come up with more than two or three ridiculous names that might be shortened to Jack. “Although we have known him since we were small. He thinks he has authority over us.”

“He's even worse than Mycroft for telling people what to do,” added Sherlock.

Mycroft glared at him.

“Right,” said John. “And that's why you're hiding from him? To stop him meddling in your lives?”

“Essentially,” said Mycroft.

John kept looking at Sherlock, who was avoiding his eyes by pretending to be absorbed by the pile of newspapers on the table. “Am I ever going to learn about your past?” he asked.

“I really hope not,” said Sherlock without hesitation.

That hurt. John took a deep breath and nodded to himself. “Right,” he said. “Right, okay then. Well, I'll leave you to chat to your brother's skull, then.” He turned around and headed out. He needed a walk.

He walked for a while, not really paying attention to where his feet were taking him. He was self-aware enough to know that he was in deep with Sherlock, emotionally speaking. He couldn't picture his life without him, but he could vividly imagine a future with him; solving cases together, bickering over Sherlock's experiments, and eventually retiring somewhere a bit more peaceful than London to grow old with each other. He had no idea if Sherlock had the same thoughts, though. His actions seemed to point to a strong affection for John, but he'd never really put words to it. John couldn't imagine that he ever would.

And now it seemed as if John wasn't even going to get let in on Sherlock's past, either. Sherlock was keeping everything locked away from John, as if only the surface-level present moment mattered. Maybe that was enough between friends, but they were so much more than that now. John didn't know if he could stand to be so close to someone who was apparently never going to lower his walls to him. But, then, how could he ever walk away from Sherlock either?

About half an hour after he'd walked out, he received a text.

_Mycroft's gone now. You can come home. SH_

John sighed. _I didn't leave to get away from Mycroft,_ he replied.

_He has taken Sherrinford, as he appeared to be making you uncomfortable. SH_

John shut his eyes for a moment, then glanced around at where he was. There was a park up ahead, and he walked to it and found a bench to sit on so that he could compose a proper reply to that.

_It wasn't that, although I really do think your attitude towards his skull is unhealthy. I'm just tired of how you keep shutting me out. Is this just a casual thing for you?_

He really should go home and have this conversation to Sherlock's face, but he was uncomfortably aware of just how bad they both were at actually letting their feelings out. It was much easier when it was just words on a screen, somehow.

There was no response from Sherlock for several minutes, and John wondered if he was just going to ignore the question as being dull and needlessly sentimental.

_I don't do 'casual',_ he replied eventually. _You must be aware of that. I have let you in far more than any other person. Please, John. Come home. SH_

That was almost certainly true. John was probably the only person that even knew he had two brothers, and that one of them was dead. He just wasn't sure if that was enough. He clutched his phone and rubbed at his forehead, wishing that this was easier.

Clearly, his lack-of-reply was too much for Sherlock to bear, because another text came through a minute later, followed immediately by another.

_There is very little that I am interested in recollecting about my past. As far as I am concerned, the only part of my life that is relevant started when I became a detective. SH_

_And the only part that is important started when I met you. SH_

John felt as if his breath had been taken away. That was the clearest statement of Sherlock's feelings that John had been given, and it was enough to lift some of the weight from his heart. He ran his thumb over the words on the screen, then pressed 'Reply'.

_It was a particularly good day. We should probably send flowers to Mike, or something._

This was stupid. He should be at home with Sherlock, not hiding from him. He stood up and looked around him, actually taking in his surroundings. There was a tube station across the other side of the park, and he started to head for it.

_I'm coming home,_ he sent as he walked. _Put the kettle on._

There was the beep of an incoming text as that was sending.

_Mike is not the flowers type. I'd recommend chocolates, but encouraging his incipient heart condition is probably the wrong message. Perhaps gym membership? SH._

John grinned at that. _That might be taken the wrong way._

He headed down into the tube station, losing signal on his phone. On the tube, he thought about all the ways that his life had changed since that day at Barts when a stranger had looked at him and known his life story. He couldn't imagine going back to what his life had been before that. Maybe Sherlock was right, maybe the time since they'd been together was all that mattered. Maybe he should just accept that Sherlock's past was a closed book.

When he got back to the flat, Sherlock was waiting for him with a cup of tea in hand. It was piping hot – he must have predicted John's arrival to the minute.

“Thank you,” said John as he took it from him, then he set it down in order to pull Sherlock down into a kiss.

“I'm sorry,” he said when he pulled back.

A faint frown appeared on Sherlock's face. “For what, precisely?” he asked.

“For walking out,” said John. “I should have stayed and talked to you about what upset me.”

“Ah,” said Sherlock. “And what did upset you?”

John snorted. Of course Sherlock wouldn't know that.

“If you don't tell me,” said Sherlock, sounding frustrated, “how will I know how to avoid it in the future?”

“Don't worry,” said John. “I've decided it's not worth getting upset about.” He settled down in his chair and picked up his tea.

Sherlock let out a long, dramatic sigh and collapsed into his own chair. “Really, John, that is no help at all. What if you change your mind?”

“I won't,” said John. Sherlock just gave him a look that summed up everything he thought about the consistency of John's reactions. John rolled his eyes. “Fine then. I just-” He paused, and wondered how to phrase what he wanted to say without causing another row. “I want to know everything about you, Sherlock. I want to know how you became who you are, because who you are is important to me. But if you would rather not talk about it, I suppose I'm okay with that.”

Sherlock was silent for rather a long time. He steepled his fingers in his classic deep-thinking pose and frowned off into the distance. John left him to it in favour of drinking his tea. It had been cold outside, and he could feel himself starting to warm up a bit.

He had finished the tea and was starting a mental check on whether there was anything in the kitchen for them to have for dinner before Sherlock spoke again.

“Sherrinford is three years older than Mycroft.” He had John's full attention immediately. “I am younger by quite a few years, the baby of the family, and there was a tendency to treat me as younger than I was because of it.” _Little Sherlock,_ remembered John. No wonder he occasionally acted like a toddler. “Sherrinford didn't do that, though. He and I got on well – far better than Mycroft and I do. Mycroft thinks that the world should exist only according to his plan, and that anything that doesn't fit in to that is fundamentally wrong in some way. This has lead to a great deal of friction between us – I rarely fit into his plans how he would want me to. Sherrinford never tried to force me to be anything other than what I am.”

John stayed sitting very still as Sherlock paused, not wanting to break the moment by saying anything in case he closed up again. He was suddenly, vividly, reminded of the last time he had sat quietly while Sherlock told a story, and that there had been three brothers in that one as well. 

_“Those writing books you've cluttered our flat with all say that you should write what you know,”_ Sherlock had said. Christ, and he really had, hadn't he? Three brothers, the oldest the one the other two liked best, the middle one modelled on Mycroft, and then the youngest had liked crime and played the violin. And the oldest had been the one to get hurt. John suddenly wondered what the circumstances had been when Sherlock left home, and whether or not it could be termed as an escape. That was probably something else he'd never really find out.

Unless, he thought, telling that story had been Sherlock's way of giving John a glimpse at his childhood, without having to go into any actual details.

“There were woods near our childhood home,” said Sherlock, and John cut off the thought in favour of listening. “Sherrinford used to take me off on walks through them when being stuck indoors got too much for me. He would answer all my questions that he could, and we would try to work out the answers to the ones he didn't know together.”

Sherlock had said all this while staring past John at the wall, but now he refocussed his gaze on John's face. “He was far more prone to sentiment, and more capable of empathy than either Mycroft or I are. He actually liked people.” The tone of Sherlock's voice showed just how mystifying he found that. “He enjoyed being around them – he didn't like doing anything alone.”

“That's why you kept his skull around,” said John.

Sherlock nodded. “It may seem strange to you, John, but he really would have hated not being around people. It's such a small thing to do for him.”

John sighed. This was where he probably should be pointing out that Sherrinford was gone, and that holding on to his skull and treating it as if it was still alive was really for Sherlock's benefit. He didn't really have the heart to, though. It was clear that Sherrinford had been extremely important to Sherlock when he had been young, and that Sherlock wasn't ready to let that go.

“How old were you-” he started, but Sherlock cut him off mid-sentence, correctly guessing what he had been going to ask.

“I'm not going to talk about his death,” he said.

“Right, okay,” said John. Well, that had probably been hoping too much anyway. For a moment he thought that he'd ended the conversation just by asking, but Sherlock took a deep breath and continued.

“He was the one who encouraged me to take up the violin,” he said. “I used to play for him.”

“You still do,” pointed out John.

Sherlock blinked at him, then gave a wry half-smile. “Well, he was very fond of music,” he said. “Music and art, and extremely bad puns. Your blog titles are just his kind of thing.” He paused again. “You would have liked him,” he said. “Certainly you would have liked him more than you do Mycroft.”

“I don't dislike Mycroft,” protested John.

“You don't like him either,” pointed out Sherlock. “No one really does, he's just a sort of unavoidable irritant. Like taxes.”

John laughed. “I'm not sure he'd be that keen on that comparison.”

“Of course he would,” said Sherlock. “The British Government, remember? He'd be flattered.” He made the face he always made when Mycroft came up. “Better not to mention it to him. His ego is a terrible thing.”

“Whereas yours is completely under control,” said John.

Sherlock humphed and reached for his violin. “My ego is no more nor less than the record of my achievements warrants,” he said.

“If Mycroft is the British Government, surely his record is worthy of some ego as well.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Of course it isn't. Haven't you looked at the state of this nation recently?”

He launched into a tune before John could point out that probably wasn't entirely Mycroft's fault. John sat and listened to him for a few minutes before he forced himself to stand up and sort out some sort of dinner for them. Apparently the conversation was over.

As he cooked, he pondered what Sherlock had said about Sherrinford. John hadn't missed the fact that there had been no mention of either parent. What little ability Sherlock had to understand people, and even occasionally connect with them, was almost certainly due to Sherrinford's influence. John couldn't help but wish that he could have had the chance to meet him.

He took their dinner back through and put a plate in front of Sherlock with the glare that meant, 'stop playing and eat, or bad things will happen.' Sherlock finished off what he was playing with what must have been an improvised flourish and set the violin aside.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, then John cleared his throat. “Sherlock,” he said. “If you want to have Sherrinford here, I'm not opposed to that.”

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment, then nodded curtly. “I'll get him back from Mycroft tomorrow,” he said.

****

That night, John went to bed first, as usual, but for once he was still awake when Sherlock crawled in next to him. He curled up around John, pressing his forehead to the back of John's neck and wrapping an arm around his chest to hold him close. John rested his hand over Sherlock's, intertwining their fingers. Sherlock stayed silent for a while, and John found himself falling into sleep. Just as he was nodding off, Sherlock finally spoke.

“You're not allowed to just walk away like that,” he said, his words muffled by John's neck so that it took John a moment to understand them. “If you're going to leave, you have to tell me why first.”

He sounded vulnerable, and oddly young. John was reminded yet again that any kind of emotional connection was new for him, and that he wasn't used to caring about anyone. He squeezed Sherlock's fingers. “I'm not going to leave,” he said.

Sherlock made a disbelieving sound at that and John felt his heart break a little that he didn't believe anyone, even John, would stay with him in the long-term.

“I'm not,” insisted John. “I couldn't.” Surely that much was obvious? John had been barely able to function before he'd met Sherlock, and now he had everything he could ever want. How could he ever just walk away from that? “You're the most observant man in London. You must have seen how important you are to me,” he said.

“Second most observant,” corrected Sherlock, and then was silent again for a few minutes.

Lying in Sherlock's arms, unable to hear anything but his breathing layered over the night-time sounds of the house and the far-off sound of traffic, John could almost believe that there was nothing but the two of them in the world. _What more would we need?_ he thought, and then realised just how much trouble he was in. Sherlock might have let him in enough to tell him about his brother, but John had let him all the way in, let him slide in and take over everything inside him, sinking deep into his flesh, his bones. His heart.

Sherlock had the power to completely destroy him. John hoped as strongly as he could that he never found that out.

“I had observed some signs of that,” said Sherlock, and John wrenched his mind back to their conversation. “But it's hard to believe in something you don't understand.”

Did he meant that he didn't understand that level of caring for someone, or he didn't understand why John would care for him? Either way, the answer was the same.

“I'll have to work on making you understand, then,” said John.

Sherlock tightened his arm around John for a moment, then pressed a kiss to the back of his neck. John drifted off to sleep with him still pressed as close as he could get, clinging on as if afraid John would slip away in the night.

_Never,_ thought John as he sank down into sleep. _I'll never leave you._


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It should be noted that I have ignored some parts of canon, particularly from S2.

A week later, John woke up in the back of an ambulance with a paramedic bent over him. He groaned.

“Easy,” said the paramedic. “You took a nasty hit there.”

John could have guessed that much himself. The world was spinning and foggy around the edges, nausea rolled through his stomach, and his head felt as if it had been split open. He had vague memories of a plank of wood coming at him and Sherlock calling his name, but everything after that was blackness.

Sherlock. He tried to sit up, but the movement caused an explosion in his head.

“Best to stay still for now,” said the paramedic.

“Sherlock,” managed John. “Is he okay?”

“Oh, he's more than fine.”

John became aware of a commotion outside the ambulance, and heard a familiar voice raised in protest. “I know he's awake. Let me past!”

“Let him in,” he croaked at the paramedic, who hesitated. John could see the thoughts roll through his mind, the same ones he'd have had in his place. He had a patient who needed quiet and calm and a madman who was creating an uproar, it wasn't hard to guess that he didn't want them in the same place.

“If you tell him I need quiet, he'll shut up,” said John. “As long as you let him in.”

The paramedic sighed. “If he gets in the way-”

“Yes, yes,” agreed John. “Just- please.”

It was enough. The paramedic stood up and moved to the back of the ambulance, opening the door to talk to whoever was out there keeping Sherlock back. A minute later, Sherlock climbed in through the door. He fixed his eyes on John with enough strength to tell John how worried he had been.

“Hey,” said John, managing a smile.

Sherlock's look changed to a glare, but he didn't say anything. Obviously, whatever the paramedic had said to him had had the right effect. Instead, he just came and took John's hand and squeezed it tightly, not letting go while the paramedic ran through some basic checks.

“Right,” he said. “I think we're ready to take you in.” He glanced at Sherlock. “I suppose you'll want to ride with us.”

Sherlock nodded very firmly and added another glare in for good measure, but still didn't speak.

“You don't need to be completely silent,” said John. “Besides, I need you to tell me what happened.”

Sherlock's scowl transferred back to John. “You were hit with a plank,” he said.

“Yeah, I remember that much,” said John. “What happened after that? Did they get away?”

They'd been after two potential kidnappers, having ruined their plot to force an heiress to marry one of them.

“No,” said Sherlock. “They-” He stopped, then said, without meeting John's eyes, “Someone came out of nowhere and attacked them. They're being taken to hospital, under guard.”

John stared at him. “Someone?” he repeated. He might not be a Holmes-style genius, but he could guess who that someone was, and he wouldn't have come out of nowhere. Sherlock met his eyes defiantly.

“Were they badly injured?” asked John.

“Not really,” said the paramedic. “More shaken than anything, though they'll have some very nasty bruises. Whoever it was terrified them though – one of them kept going on about the shadows coming alive.”

“The shadows?” repeated John, looking back at Sherlock for an explanation, but Sherlock was apparently too engrossed in studying the back of John's hand to even look at him. He'd have to wait until they were alone to get the full story out of him.

Sherlock didn't leave John's side once they made it to hospital, and only let go of his hand long enough to let them take an x-ray of John's skull to make sure he hadn't cracked it.

The doctor bought the x-ray with him when she came to tell them that John had been given the all-clear and would be able to go home. Sherlock's eyes riveted on it.

“May I see?” he asked, holding his hand out as if there was no way the doctor would refuse him.

The doctor glanced at John, who shrugged his permission, then she handed it over.

Sherlock finally let go of John in order to hold it up and look at it. He spent several long seconds in contemplation of it, until John cleared his throat.

“I think she needs that back now,” he said, glancing at the doctor apologetically.

Sherlock didn't look away from the image. “You have an astonishingly attractive skull,” he said in a voice tinged with wonder.

John had no idea how to respond to that. “Ah, thank you?” he offered.

“Look at how graceful the curve of your parietal bone is,” added Sherlock in an awed voice, tracing his finger over the x-ray. John did look, but he couldn't see any real difference between his skull and any of the hundreds of others he'd seen over his years as a doctor.

Sherlock continued to stare, apparently transfixed, until John cleared his throat. “This is the kind of thing that makes people think you're creepy,” he said. He glanced over at the doctor, who looked as if she was already mentally filling in the forms that would section Sherlock.

Sherlock shot John an uncomprehending look. “How is it creepy to find a part of my partner attractive?”

“It's a bit different when it's part of my skeleton,” said John.

Sherlock made a disdainful noise. “It's an integral part of you,” he said. “And it has an extremely pleasing symmetry.” He looked at the doctor. “Would I be able to get a copy of this?”

The doctor gave him a look that said she'd moved on to picturing straitjackets. “What? Why?”

“Because it's beautiful, and I want to be able to look at it often,” said Sherlock impatiently.

The doctor looked helplessly at John, who let out a sigh and rubbed at his forehead. This was far too much to deal with on top of a concussion. “If you can get him a copy, that would be great,” he said. “He'll only sulk, otherwise.”

“No,” corrected Sherlock “I'll only take you to Barts and make Mike or Molly do it for me.” He paused and tipped his head to one side. “That might be better, actually. That way I could get x-rays of the rest of your skeleton as well. I bet your pelvis is lovely.”

It figured that compliments from Sherlock would be weird, thought John. Still, he wasn't sure what response was normal for being told your bones were attractive, so instead he looked at the doctor. “Please give him a copy of that one, and save me from a day in an x-ray machine,” he said.

The doctor shook her head. “It's highly unorthodox,” she said.

“Orthodox is boring,” said Sherlock. “You don't have a good reason to refuse – John has given his permission.”

The doctor sighed. “I'll ask the technician to run off another copy,” she said. “This better not end with you cutting open his head to take a closer look, though.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “As if I would ever hurt him,” he said. “I am more than aware of how fragile he is.”

“I'm not that fragile,” protested John, but Sherlock just gave him a disbelieving look.

“Look at what a mere plank of wood did,” he said. “I bet you can't even stand up without swaying right now, can you?”

John scowled, and the doctor took her chance to slip out of the room.

****

When they got back to the flat, John collapsed onto the sofa with a groan. “What are my chances of getting a cup of tea?” he asked.

“Rather high, if you'll just wait a few minutes,” said Sherlock. He had pulled the x-ray out of its envelope and was holding it up. After watching him for a bit, John realised that he was putting it up against the walls as if measuring the best place to hang it.

“You're not going to put it up, are you?” he asked.

“Of course,” said Sherlock. “I'll get a frame tomorrow. I rather think it would look best over the sofa, don't you?”

“No,” said John firmly. “Oh no. I am not having an x-ray of my own skull up in the sitting room – we've already got Sherrinford, that artwork and the cow skull in here, don't you think that's enough bones for one room?”

Sherlock looked exasperated. “John, you can't possibly compare your skull to a cow's. Besides, I want to be able to see it.”

“Put it in your room, then,” said John. “If you really must hang it. I'm not kidding, Sherlock, I don't want to be staring at my own skull while I'm having a cup of tea. Besides,” he added, having a flash of inspiration, “do you really want everyone who comes in here to be looking at it? Don't you think it's a bit of a private thing?”

Sherlock considered that for a moment. “The idea of Anderson gawking at it is rather unpleasant,” he agreed. “Fine, then. I'll put it up in my room.”

He disappeared off with it, and John let out a sigh. That had been a bit of a narrow escape.

Sherlock made tea, then brought it in to John before tucking himself onto the sofa next to him.

John waited until they had drunk a few sips of tea before starting in on the next difficult topic. “Are you going to tell me what really happened in the alleyway now that it's just the two of us?”

He'd spoken to the police in the hospital, and they'd said that both the men who had attacked them were physically fine, but that one of them was in the psychiatric ward, still rambling about the shadows coming alive. The other was refusing to talk about what had happened at all, although he had confessed everything about their kidnapping plot, and a few other unrelated crimes as well, as if to make absolutely certain that he stayed locked away for a good long time. Sherlock had stuck firmly to his story that someone else had attacked them, although he'd been a bit vague when it came to a description.

Sherlock suddenly looked intensely uncomfortable and glanced away from John, over at Sherrinford's skull on the mantel. “You heard me give my statement,” he said.

“Yeah,” agreed John. “And it was clearly horseshit. Come on, Sherlock, you know I'm not going to get upset over you hurting a couple of thugs who'd already hurt me – I did shoot a man for you, after all. I just want the truth.”

“The truth,” repeated Sherlock, then gave a strange, almost pained half-smile. He was still staring at Sherrinford, and for a moment it looked as if he was sharing a private joke with the skull. “Fine,” he said, turning back to John. “You were knocked out, and I became a bit angry. There were certain consequences of that, then the police and the ambulance arrived and we all went off to the hospital.”

John stared at him. “That's all I'm getting?” he asked.

Sherlock gave an awkward shrug. “That's all there is.”

John studied him for a moment, taking in how tensely he was holding himself and the uncomfortable look on his face. There didn't seem any point in pressing the point when it was clearly only going to upset him, so John just nodded.

“Okay,” he said.

Sherlock blinked at him. “Okay?” he repeated, sounding surprised.

John nodded again. “If you really don't want to talk about it, then we won't.”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, then carefully put his tea down in order to fall sideways against John, pressing his face into John's chest and clinging on to him. “You really are remarkable,” he said, the words muffled against John's shirt.

John tangled his fingers into Sherlock's hair. “I know,” he agreed.

Sherlock's only response was a snort. He stayed precisely as he was, collapsed against John's body, and John kept his fingers moving through Sherlock's hair, gently stroking it and thinking that he must have really scared him.

****

A couple of days later, John woke up from a nightmare to find the bed beside him empty. Not unusual, given that Sherlock still slept in his own room on occasion, and didn't sleep at all far more often than John was happy about. Still, he could have done with the reassuring warmth of Sherlock's body beside him in the wake of his nightmare. He debated just turning over and going back to sleep, but the images of Moriarty's leering face all tangled up with his worst memories of Afghanistan were still seared on his mind and he was worried that more sleep would only result in another nightmare.

Instead, he got up and headed downstairs to where Sherlock most likely was. Even if Sherlock had had one of his middle-of-the-night epiphanies and dashed off after a case, leaving John alone in the flat, he could at least get a glass of water.

When he got close enough to the sitting room though, he could hear the sound of a hushed voice, and he realised that Sherlock was arguing with the skull again.

“It just feels like he should know,” said Sherlock. “Don't you think this has gone a bit far for me to still be lying to him?”

“You're not lying,” came the response, in 'Sherrinford's' voice. It really sounded as if it was coming from a different part of the room. John added 'ventriloquism' to his mental list of Sherlock's skills. “You're just not revealing everything.”

“Well, I should be,” said Sherlock. “Isn't that what relationships are built on? Honesty and openness and all that stuff?”

What a minute, was Sherlock talking about him?

“And exactly how long do you think your relationship while last once he thinks you're delusional?” asked 'Sherrinford'.

John wondered if he should feel bad about listening in on this, but whatever it was about was clearly a big deal. He couldn't bring himself to walk away without finding out what it was.

“I could prove it so that he wouldn't doubt me,” said Sherlock. “That would be easy, even without your help.”

“Fine, then,” he replied to himself in the other voice. “And what do you think his reaction to that would be? What is the usual reaction to our kind?”

 _Our kind,_ thought John. Was this about Sherlock's ridiculous claim to be a sociopath? Or some sort of weird Holmes thing? God, they weren't Jehovah's Witnesses, were they? That would explain Sherlock's refusal to celebrate Christmas, if nothing else. Of course, it didn't fit in any way with the rest of his personality or lifestyle.

“John's different,” said Sherlock stubbornly. “You know that – you've been observing him for months. You must see that he's beyond that kind of petty-”

“Sherlock,” interrupted 'Sherrinford', which John was impressed by. Sherlock was clearly very good at ventriloquism. He wondered just how many years he'd been talking out his internal dilemmas with the skull, and felt a pang at the thought of just how lonely he must have been to do that. “What was John's reaction when he found out about me?”

Sherlock was quiet for a long few minutes. “He said it was weird and unhealthy,” he admitted.

“Yes,” agreed 'Sherrinford'. “And he was clearly thinking that it was creepy. Just like everyone else.”

There was silence again, followed by a sigh. “Sherlock, I'm sorry. John is different in some ways, and you know I like him, but in other ways he is completely conventional. You can't tell him this, you'll be putting all three of us at risk.”

“Fine,” spat Sherlock. “Fine, you've made your point. I won't say anything.”

There was the unmistakeable sound of the sofa compressing under the weight of a Sherlock-sized person. John gritted his teeth with frustration. He'd clearly just lost his chance at finding out whatever it was from Sherlock's past that he was so desperate to keep secret, at least for the moment. As he crept back up the stairs to go to bed, he tried to console himself that at least Sherlock had got as far as considering the matter. They hadn't even known each other a year yet, and had been a couple for less than six months – once more time had passed, maybe he'd feel better able to open up.

*****

By the start of December, it was impossible to ignore that Christmas was well on its way, although Sherlock did his best to. He didn't hide indoors in the same way that he had before Halloween, but he did take to glaring at the decorations that were being put up everywhere with a look of death, and when a cheery sales assistant asked him about his plans for the holiday, John thought he was going to try and strangle her.

That evening, John sat Sherlock down and took a deep breath. “Look,” he said, “I know you don't want to talk about Christmas-”

“Then let's not,” said Sherlock, turning to reach for his violin.

John grabbed his wrist, pulling him back. “But we need to, on a purely practical level,” he said firmly. “You don't want any of the trappings of it here, right?”

“None of them,” said Sherlock firmly. “If you even think about getting me a present-”

“I wasn't,” said John. “I really have got your anti-Holiday thing now – no presents, no decorations, no glad tidings of peace and joy. Just – what are you actually going to do for the day? Are you going off with Mycroft again?”

“Thankfully, that's not necessary for this one,” said Sherlock.

John nodded. “Okay, so you're just going to be hanging out here, hiding, like you did for Easter?”

“I was not hiding,” said Sherlock in scathing tones.

“Of course not,” said John, only letting a little sarcasm creep in to his voice. “Well, Harry's asked me if I want to go to her place for it, but I could stay here instead. Not to do anything festive, just a normal day with the two of us together.”

He knew which he'd prefer – a day spent with Sherlock, even a day he was going to spend sulking over a religious festival, was always going to be infinitely better than anything with Harry.

Sherlock looked torn for a moment, then shook his head. “You should go to Harry's.”

“I don't mind not celebrating,” said John.

“You'll be celebrating even you do stay here,” said Sherlock. “Spending time with those you care about is all part of it, isn't it?”

“Well, yeah,” said John, “but it's not as if that would make any difference to you.”

Sherlock shook his head again, reaching for his violin. “Go to your sister's,” he commanded, then started playing in a way that signalled the end of the conversation.

John sighed, but left it. He could handle one day at Harry's, he supposed. After all, he did get to spend all his others with Sherlock.

****

Christmas at Harry's was just as bad as John had expected it to be and he left as early as he could, having drunk more than he'd wanted to. When he got home, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen and his bedroom door was firmly shut. John tapped on it.

“Sherlock?” he called.

“Not now, John,” came the reply.

John hesitated. He really wanted to see Sherlock, if only for long enough to kiss him and remind himself that nothing Harry predicted about John's life when she was drunk ever came true. “Are you coming up to bed in a bit?” he asked.

There was a pause. “No,” said Sherlock eventually. “Not tonight. I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Oh, right,” said John, disappointed. “Well, good night, then.”

“Good night,” replied Sherlock.

John gave up and went to his room, alone. He sat on his bed, rubbed his hands over his face and ran through his top ten worst Christmases. This probably came in at around eighth – no one had actually died, after all, and at least he wasn't stuck in the post-Army limbo he'd been in this time last year. Still, it seemed ridiculous that he'd had to spend the day with someone he didn't get on with when he could have spent it with Sherlock.

Sherlock, who hadn't ever got around to telling John why, precisely, he treated all these holidays as if they were tainted by evil and who hadn't even bothered to leave what he was doing long enough to kiss his boyfriend after he'd had a shit day, even though John hadn't seen him since yesterday afternoon. John thought about everyone who was convinced that there was no way Sherlock could maintain a relationship that didn't end with a murder and who so obviously thought that John was insane for even trying, and wondered if they'd end up getting proved right that this had been a massive mistake.

 _No,_ he told himself. Sherlock might not be like everyone else and he might not pay much attention to the usual social niceties, but he wasn't as bad as everyone thought, once you got know him. After his reaction to John's head injury, John couldn't deny that Sherlock cared about him a great deal – and that was without taking into account the slightly creepy compliments he had paid to the shape of John's skull.

No doubt Sherlock would emerge from his seclusion tomorrow, greet John with his usual enthusiastic kiss and tell him all about something either disturbing or disgusting, or both. That would make everything seem better, and likely always would, even if John never found out about Sherlock's past, or got to celebrate Christmas with his boyfriend.

He put himself to bed, telling himself that his current feelings had far more to do with Harry and the drink he'd had than they had to Sherlock or their relationship.

His hypothesis for Boxing Day proved to be almost correct, although it took Sherlock longer to emerge from his room than John would have guessed. It was mid-afternoon when he finally burst out of his room, spent ten minutes enthusiastically kissing John against the kitchen counter next to where John had been making tea, then dragged him into the sitting room, pushed him onto the sofa and sprawled out on top of him. He spent the next two hours detailing what seemed to be almost every thought that had passed through his mind since he'd shut himself away, as if they'd been parted for far longer than a day or two.

John listened, interposed the occasional comment, and let himself relax into a feeling of perfect contentment that more than made up for the dismal time he'd had the day before.

****

New Year's Eve passed in a similar fashion. Sherlock hid away in his room as if the sound of fireworks wouldn't dare intrude in there and John sat in the sitting room, watching Jools Holland's Hootenanny until it became too depressing and he just went to bed instead. He was cleaning his teeth when the fireworks went off at midnight, and he glanced out of the bathroom window as they bloomed over London. He wondered if 2011 would bring anything that could top 2010 and meeting Sherlock.

 _All I want from this year is to still be exactly where I am now at the end of it,_ he thought. That should be easy enough to achieve, surely?

A couple of weeks later, Lestrade and Donovan came over to re-appropriate some evidence from Sherlock.

“Sherlock, we've talked about this,” said Lestrade. “You can't take these things and then just forget about them.”

Sherlock let out an almighty sigh and slumped in his chair. “Yes, yes, I know,” he said. “Just get it, then get out.”

“Well, where is it?” asked Donovan, looking around the room as if she'd be able to spot anything in the piles of clutter that Sherlock kept spread out everywhere.

“Can't you even work that out?” asked Sherlock. “Some detective you are.”

Donovan glared at him. “Let's think,” she said. “Where would a freak like you decide to keep a sharpened knitting needle that's been soaked in arsenic? In the microwave? Under your pillow?”

“Close,” said Sherlock. “It's in my bedside table.”

“Why on earth-” Donovan broke off, shaking her head. “No, I don't want to know.” She strode off towards Sherlock's bedroom. 

Sherlock smirked after her until he noticed the look John was giving him. “What?”

John thought about all the things he wanted to say, about how Sherlock shouldn't take evidence, especially not dangerous evidence, and how he really shouldn't leave it lying around where anyone could stumble over it and hurt themselves, but instead he just shook his head. “Just wondering how many other deadly booby-traps there are hidden around this flat that might end up killing me,” he said.

Sherlock scowled. “Don't be an idiot, John, I wouldn't risk hurting you. When have you ever been in my bedside drawer? You were perfectly safe.”

Donovan re-emerged from Sherlock's room carrying a plastic evidence bag rather gingerly. “He's got an x-ray of a skull on his wall,” she said to Lestrade. John suddenly felt horribly self-conscious and looked away, clearing his throat. “Right over his bed, where he'll see it when he first wakes up. It's creepy as hell, Sir, I really think-”

“Oh, please don't try and think,” said Sherlock. “It's just horribly painful.”

Donovan glared at him. “You've got some kind of creepy obsession with skulls and bones,” she said, gesturing at Sherrinford. “If we ever have a case where the murderer is keeping bones as keepsakes, you'll be our main suspect.”

Sherlock made a face. “Why would I want a _stranger's_ bones?”

John almost put his hand over his face. The look on Donovan's face became even more disgusted. “Are you saying you knew the person whose skull that was?”

“Of course,” said Sherlock, then gave her a wide, smug smile. “And the x-ray is of John, of course. Who else would I want to see when I wake up?”

John was rather touched by that, even as Donovan's horror-struck gaze turned to him. “You let him put a picture of your skull on his wall?”

John gave a shrug. “Why not?” he asked. What business was it of her's, anyway?

Donovan stared, then turned back to Sherlock. “And, what, that's an ex, is it?” she asked, gesturing at Sherrinford.

“Don't be ridiculous,” said Sherlock, but she wasn't really listening.

“Christ, it's going to be your body we find with missing bones when he finally cracks,” she said to John.

“Donovan,” said Lestrade in a warning tone.

Sherlock's face had gone very white. “How dare you even suggest that?” he said, and stood up. “Out!” he demanded. “Take your evidence, and get out.”

Donovan sneered at him. “I wouldn't stay in this freakhole any longer,” she said, and stormed out.

Lestrade glanced after her, then at Sherlock and John with an apologetic shrug. “I'll talk to her,” he said.

John nodded and Lestrade left, heading after her.

Sherlock remained standing where he was, looking as if he was shaking with rage.

“Do you think 'freak' is the only insult she knows?” asked John, trying to defuse the mood a bit.

It didn't work. Sherlock spun to look at him, then strode to stand in front of his chair before dropping to his knees. He grabbed John's shoulders. “I would never hurt you,” he said. “She doesn't know the first thing about it.”

“I know,” said John as carefully as he could. “Sherlock, it's okay. I know you far better than she ever will. I don't for a moment think you'd ever actually murder anyone just for fun, and especially not me.”

“Right,” said Sherlock. “Good.”

John reached out to touch his face. “You don't have to worry. I'm not about to let someone else tell me who you are.”

Sherlock let out a long breath, then nodded in a jerky manner.

John leant forward and pressed a kiss to his lips. “Tea?” he suggested.

Sherlock blinked, then the tension fell off his face, and he laughed. “Of course, your default response to everything.” He kissed John, then added in a soft voice, “Don't ever change.”

He sprang to his feet before John could react to that. “I'll make the tea,” he announced, and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving John with a warm glow and what was probably an embarrassingly pleased smile on his face.

****

“I'll meet you from work,” said Sherlock as John sped around the sitting room trying to find his wallet and his keys amidst the general detritus, and wondering if any of it would ever be cleared up.

“Will you?” asked John, going through a stack of newspapers. “Is there something going on?”

Sherlock ran the bow across the strings of his violin for one, long note. “We're going to Angelo's, like we did a year ago.”

“A year ago?” repeated John, finally finding his keys under a pile of soil samples. Just his wallet to go, then. “What was a year ago?”

Sherlock let out a very long sigh and John paused his hunt long enough to actually think about it. What was the date today, and what had he been doing a year ago? “Oh,” he realised. “It's been a year since we met.”

Sherlock beamed at him as if he'd managed a clever trick. “Precisely,” he said, playing another note. “I thought we should mark the occasion.”

“I wouldn't have thought you'd be interested in anniversaries,” said John. “Given your thing about holidays.”

“Why not?” asked Sherlock. “It's not a holiday – it's unique to just the two of us. And it turned out to be rather an important event, one way or another. It deserves to be remembered.”

“It does,” agreed John. “Angelo's sounds like a great idea.”

Sherlock smiled, then nodded at the mantelpiece. “Sherrinford has your wallet.”

John turned to see that his wallet was propped against the skull. “How on earth did it get there?” he asked, grabbing it then pulling on his coat. “Right, I'll see you later, then. I'll be done at six.”

“I am aware of that,” said Sherlock. He glanced at the clock. “You're going to be late.”

John followed his gaze. “Shit,” he muttered, darted over to kiss Sherlock goodbye, then dashed off down the stairs. As he headed to the tube station, he couldn't help remembering that this time last year, he would have been limping along with a cane. He owed Sherlock a lot.

Dinner at Angelo's to mark their anniversaries was definitely a tradition that John could support whole-heartedly. _Celebrations that are unique to us,_ he thought, remembering what Sherlock had said, and smiled to himself. Having those would go a long way towards making up for missing out on holidays. He thought about constructing their own pattern of special days together, finding moments to remember that were relevant to them and not just arbitrary days decided on by society, and decided that he rather liked the idea.

As the tube pulled in to the stop closest to the clinic, he wondered if he'd have time on his lunch break to go and pick a present up for Sherlock. A copy of The Princess Bride, maybe, although it was probable that either he wouldn't get the joke, or he wouldn't find it funny.

****

When John left work that night, Sherlock was waiting outside for him. His eyes were fixed somewhere off in the distance and for a moment he didn't see John, giving John the chance to take in his appearance while he was unaware of the scrutiny.

He was dressed in a wine-red shirt and a black suit, and his skin almost seemed to glow in contrast. There was something almost ethereal about him, especially with his eyes fixed on something unseen in the distance. He stood out from all the ordinary, mundane things surrounding him as if he was superimposed on the world. John found himself wondering how he could actually be real and, beyond that, how he could possibly have decided to be with John, of all people.

Sherlock caught sight of him and nodded a greeting, and just like that he resolidified back into the world and was just Sherlock again.

“Hello,” said John. “I was almost expecting to get a text saying there'd been some horrific murder and you were going to have to cancel.”

“The criminal world has been distressingly quiet recently,” said Sherlock. “Besides, that wouldn't have made me cancel, that would have just changed the nature of the celebration. After all, there was a 'horrific murder' last year, as well as dinner.”

“Yeah, that's true,” agreed John. “Are you actually going to eat tonight, then? Angelo will be overjoyed.”

“Indeed,” acknowledged Sherlock, taking John's arm as they started walking towards Angelo's. “I called him earlier to make sure he had a table, and he starting twittering about candles and romance and all that rubbish.”

“Oh god,” said John. “This is going to be like something out of a really bad rom-com.”

“Only if we let it be,” said Sherlock. “I dare say we can avoid any of the behaviour that those kinds of films espouse.”

“Hopefully,” agreed John. “Well, except for a bit of kissing.”

“That might be possible,” allowed Sherlock. “If you play your cards right, of course. I don't kiss just anyone, you know.”

“Who said I was talking about you?” said John. “I've had the hots for Angelo for a year now – I think it's finally time to make a move.”

Sherlock gave him a scandalised look and John couldn't stop himself from starting to giggle. A heartbeat later, Sherlock joined in.

“God, John, I did not need that mental image,” he said. John just laughed harder.

****

Dinner was lovely, as was going home afterwards and curling up in bed with Sherlock. Over the next few weeks, John found himself feeling more and more content with his life, even when Sherlock disappeared for the entirety of Valentine's Day without warning, or managed to explode a melon in the kitchen so spectacularly that John was still finding bits of it a week later. Those things were just part and parcel of being with Sherlock, and he couldn't imagine ever wanting to change him.

In March, they went to Dartmoor for a case, which was probably the closest they would ever get to a mini-break. There was a whole lot of nonsense with giant hounds and secret Government labs, and John got to pull rank for the first time in a long while, which felt almost as good as the look on Sherlock's face when he did it.

It wasn't completely perfect, of course. Sherlock had an emotional breakdown that involved snapping at John that he didn't do _caring_ for people, despite all the months of evidence to the contrary. Instead of arguing back, John just took a deep breath and left him to it. There was no point in sticking around to see how many other ways Sherlock could find to hurt him in an effort to drive him away.

Sherlock found him easily the next morning, even though he'd deliberately found a graveyard to hide in, remembering Sherlock's reaction the last time they'd been faced with one. That Sherlock came in without hesitation to talk to him meant almost as much to John as his stuttered, awkward apology. He let the incident go, at least until after the case when they could have a proper talk about what was and wasn't acceptable to say to your boyfriend.

And then Sherlock decided it would be a good idea to drug John and terrify him into hallucinating a giant dog. Eating his breakfast in the sunshine after they'd wrapped everything up, John wondered if he should be angrier about that. It was clear from Sherlock's reactions that he had no idea just how out-of-line that had been, or how badly it could have ended. John's therapist might have been wrong about her PTSD diagnosis, but there was no denying that the war had left him with at least some psychological trauma, of the kind that didn't really go well with messing about with psychotropic drugs.

He waited until they were on the train home to bring it up again. Sherlock was in one of his post-case contented moods that would likely last right up until they got home and he realised there was now nothing for him to do.

“You said once that you would never hurt me,” started John.

Sherlock looked at him. “Yes,” he agreed. “And I haven't,” he added.

“Yes, you have,” said John.

Sherlock's face creased into a frown and he looked John over as if he might have missed some injury. “There's nothing wrong with you,” he said.

“Sherlock, over the last two days, you've said deliberately hurtful things in order to get me to leave you alone, and then subjected me to an experience that terrified me, and could easily have had long-term effects on my mental health – which has already proved itself to be a bit dodgy after traumatic experiences, if you can remember what I was like when we first met. Hurting me mentally, and emotionally, is just as bad as doing so physically.”

Sherlock frowned. “I already apologised for what I said and besides, I was under the influence of an hallucinogen at the time. You can't hold that against me. And I needed to make sure there was a drug – that was for the case.” He said that as if no one could ever argue against that, as if anything was acceptable as long as it was for a case. It probably was, in his world.

John sighed and wondered how he could possibly explain this so that Sherlock would understand. “I know your work is important to you,” he said, “but you could have done me serious damage, Sherlock. If you meant 'I'm not going to hurt you, unless I think doing so will help with a case', then you might as well have not said it.”

Sherlock sat in silence for a few minutes, frowning slightly to himself. John left him to it for a bit, telling himself that letting Sherlock think it through on his own was best. If John kept pushing, he'd get stubborn and defensive, and nothing John had said would get through his head. 

Despite knowing that, he couldn't resist adding, “And if you want me to leave you alone for a bit, you should probably start with asking me if I will, not with trying to being cruel to me until I can't stand it.”

Sherlock looked at him with narrow eyes for a moment, then turned to look out the window. John kept silent after that, hoping that something of what he'd said would sink in. For all he loved Sherlock – and he did love him a frightening amount, far more than he'd ever be able to tell him – he wasn't sure he'd be able to stay with him if he kept doing things like this.

They were back in 221B before Sherlock spoke again. John had made tea when they got in and was just settling down into his chair with a little sigh at being home again.

“John, when I said I wouldn't hurt you, it was a reaction to Donovan's accusations – do you remember?”

“Yeah,” said John. “You know I've never worried for a second that you'll turn into a serial killer, though.”

“Sherrinford, Mycroft and I all had different fathers,” said Sherlock, looking at the skull rather than at John. “Our mother was not a particularly good woman to be in a relationship with. In fact, you might say she was rather cruel. None of them survived for much longer than a handful of years. My father didn't even last until I was six months old.”

John felt frozen in place with shock. He had never thought Sherlock would ever open up about his childhood, and to hear him actually volunteering details without prompting was almost as shocking as the actual things he was saying.

“When Donovan said those things,” continued Sherlock, still avoiding looking at John's face by focussing on Sherrinford, “it was that I thought of. I don't remember any of our fathers, of course, but I had heard enough stories of how Mummy treated them to know that it's the last thing I would ever want to do to you.”

Oh Christ, John had stumbled over an emotional minefield on this one. “And you haven't,” he said. “You weren't being deliberately cruel. I know that.”

“The motivation is immaterial if it ended with you in pain,” said Sherlock, finally looking away from Sherrinford to focus on John. “I- John. You know that emotions and empathy are not my forte, and I don't always understand what it is to hurt someone emotionally. I can't promise that I never will, not in the same way that I can promise never to hurt you physically.”

“I don't need you to promise that,” said John. “You wouldn't be able to keep it, anyway – no one could. I just want to know that you won't do it on purpose, for petty reasons.”

Sherlock nodded. “I can promise that,” he said. “John, I will not hurt you on purpose, either physically, mentally or emotionally.” He paused, and then added, “Not unless it is completely unavoidable.”

John smiled. “That's more than enough for me,” he said. He held out a hand to where Sherlock was hovering awkwardly in the middle of the room. “Come here.” Sherlock stepped closer to him and took John's hand. “I promise the same,” he said. “I'll do my best not to hurt you, Sherlock. At the end of the day, that's all two people can say to each other.”

He gave Sherlock's hand a little pull and Sherlock allowed himself to be folded into John's lap, where John was able to press a kiss to his lips.

“I may need you to tell me if I do hurt you,” sad Sherlock. “I don't yet have a complete data set on what upsets you and what doesn't. You occasionally defy all expectations.”

John's smile grew and he pulled Sherlock in for another, longer kiss. “That, I can definitely do,” he said. “I'm not expecting miracles, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiled back. “That's good,” he said. “I'm afraid I am far from holy enough to grant them.”

John laughed and kissed him again.

****

Everything had been going so well, thought John as they ran from the police still handcuffed together. That should have been his first clue that something awful was about to happen. They'd had a whole series of interesting cases, things between them were so good that John couldn't imagine spending his life anywhere other than at Sherlock's side, and Sherlock had even managed to do the washing up last week. It had felt like everything was finally working the way it was meant to and John was happier than he could remember being, which was naturally when Moriarty came along and tipped it all over into darkness and chaos.

Sherlock became more and more closed off as the web that Moriarty had woven around him tightened. By the time they were holed up in Barts, trying to come up with some solution that didn't end with them both being arrested, Sherlock was barely looking at John at all, and when he did it was clear he wasn't really seeing him.

John wasn't sure how to deal with this version of Sherlock, the one with the face so blank that it seemed as if he'd never known an emotion, never laughed helplessly over a special club for gingers with John, or curled around him in bed and kissed him until they were both breathless and John thought his heart was going to melt with how in love he was. Looking at Sherlock now, John found himself hating Moriarty more than he had known he could hate anyone. How dare he come along and make Sherlock wall himself off behind a mask like this?

“Any ideas?” he asked.

“Nothing you'd want to hear,” replied Sherlock without looking up from his unfocussed stare at the far wall.

“Right,” said John. “Well, maybe we should go to the police? They'd probably take a while to sort it all out, but Moriarty's story can't be that solid, can it? And there's no way an investigation of your cases is going to turn anything dodgy up-”

“John,” interrupted Sherlock. “Do shut up.”

John stopped and let out a long, careful breath. _Under a lot of stress,_ he reminded himself. He did shut up though, for the moment. Clearly, nothing he could say was going to help.

For all he intended to stay awake with Sherlock and help him as much as he could, even if it was only being there for him, the long few days they'd had, as well as all the emotional stress, caught up with him.

He woke up to a telephone call.

“Is this John Watson? I'm afraid Martha Hudson has been shot.”

His mind stilled. Mrs. Hudson was far too good, and harmless, to have been hurt by all this, surely? How on earth was it fair for her to pay the price for Moriarty's machinations?

They had to go to her. They couldn't let her die alone.

“Come on, Sherlock, let's go,” said John, grabbing his coat.

“You go, I'm busy,” said Sherlock.

“Busy?” repeated John incredulously.

“I'm thinking. I need to think.”

John could barely believe what he was hearing. “Doesn't she mean anything to you?”

“She's my landlady,” said Sherlock, and the bastard had the gall to sound confused, as if he had no idea why John would treat this as a big deal.

“She's dying!” exclaimed John. He cast around for something that might make Sherlock realise what he was saying. “Not being there with her will hurt her, Sherlock. Emotionally.”

“I don't remember promising anything to her,” said Sherlock. “Besides, what difference will a bit of emotional pain make when she's already dying?”

John gaped at him for a long moment, a thousand responses running through his mind before he forcibly shut them all down. He wouldn't solve anything by insulting Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson didn't time for him to have this argument. “Sod this,” he said, and left.

There was nothing wrong with Mrs. Hudson when John arrived, breathless, back at Baker Street. She blinked at him in bewilderment when he mentioned the phone call, and that was when John realised that he'd left Sherlock alone to do something incredibly stupid.

He promised the cab driver double the fare if he could get him back to Barts in less than quarter of an hour, then spent the whole drive dialling Sherlock's number and listening to it ring out, before immediately dialling again.

When he arrived, it was clear he was too late.

“Keep your eyes fixed on me,” said Sherlock, as if John could possibly get distracted by anything else right now. “Please, will you do this for me?”

A heavy feeling was sinking through John's stomach. “Do what?”

“This phone call, it's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note.”

John could feel himself start to shake, but he wasn't paying attention to his body right now. Everything he had was fixed firmly on the dark figure of Sherlock, silhouetted against the skyline. “Leave a note when?”

“Goodbye, John.”

Oh god. “No. Don't do this,” said John. “Please, Sherlock. Don't. You said you wouldn't hurt me – this is going to hurt me. This is going to hurt me more than anything else you could ever do.”

“I said I wouldn't hurt you unless it was unavoidable,” Sherlock reminded him. “John. I don't.” There was a long pause, followed by a shuddering breath. “I'm a fake,” he said, those ridiculous, impossible words, as if John didn't know him far too well to ever believe it. “You shouldn't believe anything I say.”

“I always will,” swore John, with all the certainty he had.

“Don't,” said Sherlock, then, “Goodbye,” again. 

He cast the phone aside before John could beg him to stop, or try and find some other way to get him to see sense, and John felt frantic panic surge through him.

“SHERLOCK!” he yelled, as if just shouting his name would be enough to stop him.

It wasn't. Sherlock stepped off the roof, and John felt the whole world tilt sideways. He pushed his way forward through what felt like porridge, barely noticing as a bike knocked him down and he was forced to pick himself up. He couldn't focus on anything else, nothing but the broken shape of Sherlock's body and the bright puddle of blood spreading out from it. He fumbled for Sherlock's pulse, then lost all strength in his legs as he realised there was nothing there. No pulse, no life, nothing. Sherlock was dead.

****

After Sherlock's death, it seemed as if the colours had faded out of the world. John sat in his chair for hours, staring at nothing while the stark shape of Sherlock's body as it fell played endlessly in his mind. He made it to the funeral, which was held at Mycroft's house rather than a church – not there was a great deal of difference between some of Mycroft's décor and ecclesiastical architecture. Still, Mycroft had insisted that Sherlock would not have wanted anything to do with a church, or even a crematorium, so instead of a traditional funeral, they'd gathered there instead. They ate incredibly pretentious nibbles, drank expensive wine, and avoided mentioning anything about how, or why, Sherlock had died.

After twenty minutes of watching people who had never really known Sherlock talking about him in grave voices, as if he was the kind of person who could be described in just a few sentences, John had to get away. 

He went out to the garden and found a bench to collapse on. He put his head in his hands, screwed his eyes tightly shut as if he could block out everything that had happened, and started to take careful, deep breaths to settle himself. It wouldn't do to go back in there and cause a scene by telling everyone just how wrong they all were about Sherlock, about how amazing he'd been, and how human at times, and how none of them had a bloody clue.

There was a deliberately loud footstep and John looked up to see Mycroft watching him. He let out a loud groan. 

“Can't I get a minute to myself?” he asked, then realised just how much like Sherlock being confronted by his brother he sounded. Well, Mycroft probably deserved it. John wasn't even close to forgiving him over this one yet.

“I apologise,” said Mycroft. “There are a couple of matters that we should discuss.”

John let out a long, slow breath. “Mycroft, just, not now,” he said, and he could hear the strain in his voice, the edge of the tears that had been hovering for days now but that he kept swallowing down. He wasn't sure he was ready to start crying yet, in case he couldn't stop.

Mycroft regarded him for a moment, then gave a little nod. “I shall come and visit you at Baker Street, then,” he said.

John made a face, but nodded agreement. As much as he wanted to avoid the whole thing, there was the issue of Sherlock's belongings, not to mention Sherrinford, who was still sitting on the mantelpiece as if waiting for Sherlock to turn up and play one of his concerts for him.

“Looking forward to it,” he said, pulling himself to his feet. “I'm leaving now. Tell Mrs. Hudson for me, would you?” He couldn't face going back into that room again.

Mycroft nodded. “I will,” he said, then hesitated. “John, you should know that you are not alone. If there is ever anything you need, please do not hesitate to contact me.”

John let out a bitter laugh. “Alone is exactly what I am,” he said, and he felt the surge of emotion rising up in his throat again. He took a deep breath to push it back down before Mycroft could comment on the crack in his voice. “Let me know when you're coming by,” he said, then left as quickly as he could, before he broke down entirely.

When he got home, he looked around at the clutter of Sherlock's life, all still frozen in place as he had left it, and felt all the strength sink out of him. For a moment he thought he was just going to collapse on the floor, but instead he made it as far as Sherlock's room. He curled up in the middle of Sherlock's bed, in the sheets that still smelled of him, and let the grief close in around him.

****

Mycroft didn't bother letting him know when he was coming by. John got home from a trip to the supermarket to find him standing in the sitting room, leaning on his umbrella and looking at Sherrinford.

John was unable to hold in a groan. “Jesus, Mycroft,” he said, heading for the kitchen with his shopping. “When I said 'let me know when you're coming', that didn't mean 'break in while I'm out'.”

“I didn't break in,” said Mycroft. “Mrs. Hudson let me in. She was kind enough to allow me to wait for you.”

John made a face to himself and started to put the shopping away. “I suppose you've come for Sherrinford,” he said.

“Actually,” said Mycroft, after a moment spent looking at the skull, as if meeting its non-existent gaze, “I shall be leaving him here.”

“What?” John said. “Mycroft, come on. It's your brother's skull, not mine.”

“Yes,” agreed Mycroft. “However, I rather think you are in need of him more than I am. Sherlock's skull, unfortunately, is not in a fit state to be given to you.”

John gaped at him, and then the thought of just how broken Sherlock's skull would have been after a fall from that height broke through his incredulity at the statement, and for a moment the room wavered. “Jesus Christ,” he said, leaning back against the counter behind him. “Jesus fucking Christ, Mycroft. Only a Holmes would have said that. Why on earth would I want Sherlock's skull?”

“Why wouldn't you?” asked Mycroft, than gave a little shrug as if to put aside the line of conversation. “At any rate, I came to give you this,” he said, picking a file up off the desk and holding it out to John.

John flicked it open and skimmed over the information it contained. “What is this?”

“I should have thought that was obvious,” said Mycroft. “I have transferred Sherlock's accounts into your name.”

“That's a lot of money,” said John, flipping the page. “Oh Jesus, there's more.”

Mycroft lifted one shoulder elegantly. “We have always been rather good at making investments,” he said. “Sherlock wasn't particularly interested in all that, of course, but he was wise enough to allow me to make some on his behalf.”

“Right,” said John, still staring at the figures. “Okay. And it's all mine now? Surely if it's family money, you should have it?”

“I have more than enough of my own,” pointed out Mycroft. “You do not. Besides, Sherlock wanted you to have it.”

“Oh,” said John. “Right.” He turned back to the first page, trying to get his head around all the different accounts, shares and investments. Apparently, he was rich now. Ridiculously rich. Why the hell had Sherlock needed a flatmate if he'd had all this? And what on earth was a OEIC? “Christ, I'm going to have to get a degree in finance just to work out the interest.”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “I can continue to look after it for you, if you want,” he said.

“I'm sure I'll work it out eventually,” said John, although he doubted it.

“It would be a pleasure,” said Mycroft. “I rather enjoy it, to be honest.”

John finally looked up from the file in order to stare at him. “After a long day of running the country – and probably half the rest of the world as well - you like to relax by working out compound interest and playing the stock market?” he asked.

“I really only occupy a very minor role in the government,” said Mycroft.

John snorted. “Right, of course,” he said. He shut the file and put it on the table to be puzzled over later. “I suppose if you actually understand it all, you might as well keep an eye on it,” he said. “I can't imagine I'll ever use any of it, though. Not unless I get a sudden yearning for my own aircraft carrier.”

Mycroft nodded. “Then there is just one more matter,” he said. “Sherlock has left you all his belongings, which I doubt comes as much of a surprise.” 

It was, actually, because it meant Sherlock had considered his own mortality for long enough to make some sort of Will. Unless he had done it knowing that he was going to jump, in which case there should have been other signs that he was thinking of suicide, ones that John had missed. He cut off that train of thought and took a careful breath. Guilt and recriminations could wait until after he'd got rid of Mycroft. 

“However,” continued Mycroft, “I was going to ask if I might take his violin.”

“His violin?” repeated John, glancing over to where the case was lying next to the music stand in the corner, as if just waiting for Sherlock to reappear and launch into some fiendishly difficult solo.

“Yes,” said Mycroft. He hesitated, then added, “I can still remember him getting it, you know. How very pleased he was, and how quickly he mastered it. Besides which, a violin of that quality requires regular upkeep that I am sure you do not know how to provide.”

John thought for a moment. He was extremely reluctant to let any of Sherlock's possessions out of the flat, especially not something he had prized as highly as his violin, but he supposed Mycroft deserved a memento of his brother, and it wasn't as if John would ever be able to play it. “Yeah, okay.”

Mycroft nodded. “Thank you,” he said as he picked it up.

It was only after he had gone that John realised he had been completely distracted from the issue of Sherrinford. He looked at the skull and thought about putting it in Sherlock's room, or boxing it up and sending it to Mycroft, but something about that didn't sit right. It had been the silent observer of so much that had happened between John and Sherlock, things that now only John remembered. Getting rid of it would feel as if he was trying to get rid of those memories.

“Fine,” he said out loud. “But if I end up talking to you...” He trailed off when he realised he was doing exactly that, and resolutely returned to the kitchen to put his shopping away.


	4. Chapter Four

John had thought that living with the grief of Sherlock's death would get easier with time or, at least, he had been hoping it would. It didn't, though. If anything it got worse as every day dragged by, empty and exhausting and without Sherlock in it, and it really began to sink in that this was it for the rest of his life. He'd had Sherlock for eighteen months and now all he had left was years without him, stretching out into the future. Years without Sherlock's quicksilver flashes of inspiration, or his tendency to initiate a cuddle just by collapsing across John, or even the way he'd look at John when he had a breakthrough, always hoping that John would be clever enough to have kept up with him and reached the same thought on his own.

John took to sleeping in Sherlock's bed, waking up to the x-ray of his own skull and wondering why he hadn't let Sherlock take him to Barts to get a full set. It would have cost so little to give that to him and if he had, maybe Sherlock would have realised how much he was loved, and thought twice before jumping.

On what would have been the anniversary of their first kiss, he got absolutely, blindingly drunk and passed out on the sofa. When he woke up late the next morning, he'd lost twelve hours, none of which he'd spent sitting in his chair, staring blankly at the wall and missing Sherlock so fiercely that it hurt. The respite was more of a relief than he'd have realised. The weight of all that emotion was incredibly draining, leaving John constantly exhausted. At least when he was drunk, he could escape it.

A week later, he got drunk again. He was fully aware that he was falling into bad habits, ones that his family history should warn him off even if his medical training didn't, but it was too hard to resist the chance of a little oblivion.

It didn't work as well the second time, however. He woke up on the sofa at around 3, images of Sherlock's pale, blood-stained face dancing in front of his eyes. He was still drunk enough for the room to spin when he levered himself upright. Everything Sherlock had owned and left behind was there, still frozen in place as if he might come back, and for a moment John felt just like them. Just another of Sherlock's abandoned possessions, no use to anyone now that he was gone. He buried his face in his hands and tried to hold back the sob building in his throat, but he was too drunk to really have control over his emotional responses.

“You need to pull yourself together,” said a voice. “This isn't doing anyone any good.”

John's head darted up so quickly that the room started to spin again. He looked about for the source of the voice, wondering who the hell could have got into the flat, and why they'd bothered now that Sherlock was dead.

“Over here,” said the voice, and John realised with a shock that it was coming from the skull.

“Oh god,” he croaked.

“Yes, I know,” said the skull. “'Oh no! A skull is talking to me! I must have completely lost my marbles!' Or, more likely, you're still drunk and possibly still asleep, and this is all just a grief-induced hallucination.”

It was talking rather quickly and John couldn't quite keep track of its sentences, but it was enough to make the sick feeling in his stomach turn over. He stared, blinking to get it into focus, then carefully stood up, bracing himself on the back of the sofa, and staggered across the room. He picked up the skull, ignoring its squawk of indignation, and turned it over. There was nothing there, nothing but the empty expanse of its cranial cavity. Jesus, he was completely losing it. He set it back down with shaking hands.

“If you're quite done,” said the skull, or Sherrinford, or whatever John should be calling it. There was something about the voice that made it sound like a Holmes; a careful way of choosing its words and making sure to annunciate every syllable fully.

“Christ,” swore John, then he stumbled backwards to collapse into his chair.

“Look,” said Sherrinford. “There's no need to get worked up about this – you'll easily manage to convince yourself it's just a dream in the morning. Just your brain playing tricks on you. Some sort of mental skullduggery,” it added, then laughed. “ _Skull_ duggery. Oh, that's a good one.” John just continued to stare at the skull in shock, and after a moment, it cleared its throat – what throat? How was that even possible? - and continued in a more serious voice. “I need to talk to you. You can't keep doing this to yourself.”

“Doing what?” asked John in a shaking voice. “Going completely mad?” Oh god, and now he was talking back to it. That couldn't possibly be a good idea.

“You've got to stop suffering so much,” said Sherrinford. “You need to pull yourself together. You're moderately intelligent, how do you think this is going to end if you keep on like this?”

“Don't you think I'd stop if I could?” snapped John. “This is,” he waved a hand vaguely at the room to indicate his current state, ignoring the way his words slurred. “This is just how normal people react to-” He stopped, unable to bring himself to say the words, even to a drunken hallucination.

“Normal is a ridiculous word,” said Sherrinford. “I think I can honestly say that I've never met anyone who could be described by it, and certainly not you. John, you must know that Sherlock wouldn't want-”

“Sherlock doesn't get a say!” interrupted John. “If he wanted a say, he shouldn't have jumped.”

“Do you really think that a mere fall would stop a Holmes?” asked the skull. “After all, look at me. I survived a lot more.”

“Thought you were just a hallucination,” pointed out John.

“Fine then,” said Sherrinford with a sigh. “How about this one? Sherlock promised that he wouldn't hurt you unless it was unavoidable, and he would definitely have known this would hurt you. Moreover, I think we can both agree that he was not the type to commit suicide, and certainly not because of what people thought about him.”

“I don't know what type he was,” said John. “He kept secrets. I don't-” he stopped, because they were getting close to the worst pain, the part he had walled up as completely as he could but still couldn't seem to hide from. “I barely know anything about him. Knew. Barely knew anything. He kept so much from me.” The familiar surge of despair rose up in him and he curled forwards to bury his head in his hands again. “I didn't even really know him.”

“Wrong again,” said Sherrinford, and there was a familiar note of exasperation in its voice, one John had heard from both Sherlock and Mycroft in the past. “Come on, John, use your brain! Sherlock was starting to open up to you in ways that made Mycroft very nervous. Not that that's particularly hard when it come to sharing yourself with other people. He's never understood why someone might tell anyone else more than was absolutely necessary.”

“Unless that person is Moriarty,” put in John, bitterly.

Sherrinford sighed and John had another dizzying moment of trying to work out how he was able to do that without key parts of his anatomy, like his lungs. Jesus Christ, he really needed to go to bed and stop arguing with what should be an inanimate object. With what almost certainly would be an inanimate object once he was sober.

“Most of what Mycroft told Moriarty was inaccurate, or things he knew Sherlock wouldn't care about people knowing. You must have noticed that the picture he conjured of Sherlock's childhood was rather different from what Sherlock has told you. For one thing, he didn't mention me at all.”

“Can't imagine why not,” muttered John. “I bet Moriarty would have just loved to hear about Sherlock's pet skull.”

“I'm not his pet,” said Sherrinford sharply. “I'm his brother.”

“Thought you were the alcohol,” muttered John. “Or are we on to some sort of haunting now?”

“This is all beside the point,” said Sherrinford, ignoring the question. “John, you need to conquer your grief and be strong. Crumbling away over this will only mean that Moriarty has won.”

“Moriarty won when Sherlock hit the pavement,” said John. He stood up, ignoring the stiffness in his leg and the wobble of the room as he did so. “Sherlock was-” he paused to frame his thoughts, then took a careful breath, “he was everything to me. How I grieve for him is my own business.” 

He turned and headed out of the room. Time to pull himself together and go to bed, in the faint hope that when he woke up tomorrow, things would be a tiny bit better. Or, at least, not worse.

“It's also your business to keep yourself healthy and sane,” said Sherrinford as John reached the door. “You could be doing a better job of that.”

John didn't bother replying, not even to point out that he was the best job he could right now, and that he had been doing a lot better before a skull started talking to him.

Upstairs, he didn't even bother turning the light in his room on. He just collapsed onto the bed, still fully clothed, and shut his eyes against the lingering effects of the alcohol, the endless, ongoing grief, and the new worry that he was going insane.

****

John didn't make it downstairs until gone noon the next day. After he woke up, he spent a couple of hours lying in bed, recovering from his hangover and trying to make some sense of his hazy memories of talking to no one.

When he did make it downstairs he tried to ignore the skull in favour of making tea, but while the kettle was boiling, he couldn't stop himself from going over to inspect it. It didn't look any different than it usually did, but then it hadn't last night either. He poked his fingers through its eye holes, then peered in closely at it.

“Hello?” he said, and immediately felt like a complete idiot, a feeling that only grew when there was the expected amount of response from an inanimate object: none. He put it down and went back to his tea.

He couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched by it, though. He wondered if he'd end up in another conversation with it if he got drunk again, and decided that maybe he should lay off the drinking for a bit. God only knew what could start talking to him next – the cow skull on the wall might start claiming to be Sherlock's great-aunt.

In the end, he texted Mycroft. _If you don't come and take this skull away, I shall donate it to the London Dungeons._

Mycroft came by within the hour. “I realise that Sherlock gave you a poor example to work from,” he said. “But I really do respond to communication other than childish threats.”

“Last time I asked you to take it, you changed the subject and then distracted me,” John pointed out.

Mycroft looked at the ceiling long-sufferingly. “I informed you that it would be best if he stayed here, and then moved on to the business that I actually came for.”

“Yeah, well, I've decided I don't want it. There's absolutely no reason for me to have it,” said John.

Mycroft gave him a careful look. “Did something happen?” he asked. “It has been several weeks since my visit, during which time you have done nothing about any of Sherlock's belongings.” He glanced around at the room.

John took a careful breath in through his nose. He was not about to tell Mycroft that he'd got drunk enough to hallucinate a talking skull; he'd never get left in peace if he did that.

“I've decided that it's time to start moving forward,” he said, and the words felt like ash in his mouth. How could he ever move forward from Sherlock? Those eighteen months had been the best time of his life. The only direction he could go in now was backwards. Back to being a lonely, bored bachelor, back to staring at the walls and thinking of a time when he had a life worth living.

“Ah,” said Mycroft quietly. “In that case, I would ask you to let me know if you decide to clear out anything else of Sherlock's. There are some things I would take if the alternative was for them to be thrown away.”

Oh great, now John was actually going to have to make a start on the horrible task of going through Sherlock's things. He nodded stiffly, then picked up the skull and handed it to Mycroft, hoping he'd take the hint and get out before John accidentally talked himself into anything else.

Mycroft took the skull gently, tucking it under his arm. John remembered the care with which Sherlock had always handled it, at odds with how he treated almost everything else, and thought, not for the first time, that the alive version of Sherrinford must have been rather special to make two such cold-hearted people care so much for him, even years after his death.

After Mycroft had gone, John sank down onto the sofa and looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time. Perhaps he should start to pack some of the stuff away. It might be nice to have a tidy sitting room for once – he couldn't remember ever having had such a thing at Baker Street. Sherlock had managed to make a mess before John had even moved in.

He set to work on boxing up at least the top layer of sheets of paper, items left over from cases, and unidentifiable clutter, but he didn't get very far. He found himself leaving half of it where it was, unable to bring himself to throw it away even though he had no use for it. 

Everything had a memory attached to it. _That_ was the article about the case with the severed ears, during which Sherlock had told John, in an off-hand voice, that he'd memorised every part of John's body so that he'd be able to recognise it in an instant if he needed to; _this_ was the bookmark that John had bought for Sherlock when he'd gone to Birmingham for a conference and come home to find the whole flat covered in confetti; _that_ was the envelope on which Sherlock had written his shopping list for the bloodstains experiment, the one John had vetoed as soon as he'd heard about it and refused to buy any of the things on the list until Sherlock promised to do it at Barts. Every single, tiny thing was a reminder that Sherlock had been here, that he had existed, and that his life had been intertwined with John's.

After an afternoon's work, John had one half-filled cardboard box, a very small bag of rubbish, and a sitting room that suddenly felt even more empty than it had before. He looked around at it, marking all the places where things had been, and then glanced at the box, wondering if he shouldn't unpack some of them. He took a deep breath, told him that he was meant to be moving on, and put the box in Sherlock's room. He couldn't quite face the idea of getting rid of it yet.

The next day, he moved on to the kitchen. He couldn't bring himself to go anywhere near Sherlock's chemistry equipment, but he did open up the freezer and bin everything that wasn't readily identifiable as food. It was a lot harder to get sentimental about things that were probably a health hazard, and he got on better than he had in the sitting room. When he'd finished, he felt so accomplished that he moved on to Sherlock's Poison Cupboard.

After he'd first discovered Sherlock's haphazard approach to labelling things, after a scare involving a pepper pot filled with cyanide, John had told Sherlock in no uncertain terms that if anything was likely to harm John if he ate it, it had to be kept in that specific cupboard, and nowhere else. By some miracle, Sherlock had actually managed to stick to the rule.

John went through the cupboard now, throwing most of it straight in a bag and occasionally putting something aside to be incinerated at Barts. Towards the back, he found a collection of herb bottles that were actually labelled: witch hazel, henbane, deadly nightshade, frog's breath.

John frowned. He hadn't heard of frog's breath before. He carefully opened the lid, then shut it immediately when a truly terrible smell rolled out. He choked, throwing the bottle straight in his rubbish bag. Jesus Christ, how could anything smell so vile? Had it gone off, or was it actually meant to smell like that?

There was a knock on the doorframe, and Mrs. Hudson came in. “You're tidying,” she said, sounding more surprised than John really felt was warranted. “Oh dear, what is that smell?” She crossed over and opened the kitchen window.

“I have no idea,” said John. “Something of Sherlock's.”

“Well, that's something I won't miss,” she said. “All the smells and fumes from his experiments.”

John would miss those. He already did. He missed everything, even the stuff he'd hated at the time. He took a deep breath, taking in the last remnants of the noxious odour as it faded, then stood up and gave Mrs. Hudson his best 'I-am-coping' smile. “I'll put the kettle on, shall I?”

“Oh, that would be lovely,” she said. “And then I can give you a hand, if you want.”

“No,” said John, too quickly. “No, it's fine, thank you, Mrs. Hudson.” It was bad enough that he had to go through all these things and throw some of them away. If someone else helped, they wouldn't know the full value of each of them. They might throw away something John couldn't bear to be without.

He ignored the thought that what he couldn't bear to be without was Sherlock himself, because there was nothing to be done about that, and instead went to fill the kettle.

****

The first holiday after Sherlock died was Halloween. By the time it arrived, John had managed to settle into a life that largely consisted of making sure everyone thought he was doing okay, although he didn't bother hiding from himself that it felt as if he'd been hollowed out and refilled with cold lead. He found a part-time job at a surgery that wasn't too far from Baker Street, just to give himself something to do, but he found almost all the patients and their complaints to be far too mundane to really engage him.

When the pumpkins and spiderwebs started to go up, he thought about decorating the flat now that there was no one to stop him, but he really couldn't see the point. Besides, it somehow felt as if doing so would be an insult to Sherlock's memory. Instead, he ignored the preparations as thoroughly as Sherlock always used to, then headed to the shop to get some beer in for the night itself.

_I'd have been spending tonight alone even if Sherlock was still alive,_ he told himself, but somehow that didn't make him feel any better.

He was on the way back, wondering if there'd be anything other than horror films on the telly, when something stung the back of his neck. He grabbed at it, pulling out a tranquilliser dart just as the world started to go hazy.

_Thought I was done with this kind of thing,_ floated across his mind as he lost feeling in his hands and dropped his shopping bags. His vision dimmed and he felt himself sway and fall, but everything went black before he felt himself hit the ground.

****

When he came to, he was tied to a chair in the middle of a graveyard. He lifted his head to look around, then groaned as the thumping headache from the drug hangover hit him.

“Jesus,” he swore.

There was a laugh from behind him. A man wearing army surplus cast-offs with a handgun strapped to his thigh and a rifle in his hands, stepped into view.

“Not quite, but if we're lucky there will be a resurrection tonight,” he said. His eyes were gleaming with a fervent, manic light that immediately put John on his guard. This was not good at all.

He looked around the graveyard again, noting just how dark and empty it was, and how far away the nearest building was. The only light came from an electric lantern propped on a gravestone. He must have missed several hours whilst unconscious.

“Please tell me this isn't some kind of Satanist human sacrifice thing,” he said. That would just be far too embarrassing as a way to die.

The man laughed again, far stronger and longer than the comment deserved. Definitely a nutjob, thought John. 

“Satan has nothing to do with it,” said the man. “Although there may well be a human sacrifice, if my trap doesn't work quite the way I want it to.”

“Let me guess, I'm bait,” said John, then rolled his eyes. “Didn't you see the headlines? There's no one to come after me these days.”

The man smirked. “Not quite true,” he said, pulling a gag out of one of his pockets. “I don't really want you interrupting though, so if you don't mind...”

“I do, actually,” said John, but was ignored as the man gagged him. John breathed out through his nose and wondered if Mycroft still kept an eye on him. Except, of course, it was Halloween, and he was probably off doing whatever family obligation he and Sherlock had disappeared off to last year. Unless the police already had a lead on this guy, it didn't like John was going to get a rescue. He pulled at his bonds, but they were too secure for him to have any hope of managing to get out of them. It seemed he was just going to have to sit tight and wait for whatever this nutjob had planned.

What he had planned seemed to be a long, dull wait in the dark and cold. The man wandered about the circle of light from his lantern, swinging his rifle about in a way that made John very, very nervous. He wondered if he had any idea what he was doing with his firearms, or if he was just using action films as a template.

After about ten minutes, the man started to sing to himself in an off-key monotone that made John begin to hope that he was going to get shot through the head sooner rather than later. He didn't recognise the song, but he wasn't sure if that was because he didn't know it, or if the rendition of it was too dissimilar to the original.

Just as John was beginning to consider holding his breath until he passed out in order to get away from the singing, there was a movement in the dark beyond their circle of light and the man shut up, bringing his rifle up in a way that looked far more experienced than John would have guessed. Apparently he was used to firing the thing, even if his ideas of sensible gun handling were pretty rubbish.

“Thank god that noise has stopped,” said a voice that was so overwhelmingly familiar that for a moment John thought he had passed out after all. Either that, or he'd never come to in the first place and was in a drugged hallucination. There was no way that he could be hearing that voice whilst awake. Sherlock was dead. That fact had been engraved into the core of John's life for the last four months.

“Honestly, Moran, are you completely tone deaf?” continued the voice, and John sucked in a sharp breath through the gag. Oh god, it really did sound like him.

“That's Colonel Moran to you, while I've got your mate tied up,” said the man to the darkness.

John was desperately strained his eyes at the place the voice was coming from, trying to make out a figure and prove his ears wrong.

There was a snort and the movement of a shadow from behind a statue of an angel. “We both know you have no claim to that rank. You barely got as far as corporal in the Territorial Army before they threw you out.”

The shadow finally stepped into the light. John blinked rapidly several times, then just stared when that didn't change what he was seeing. It was definitely Sherlock, wrapped in his coat and looking exactly as he always had, as if John hadn't watched him dive off a building, or suffered through his funeral, or barely held back tears at his graveside. For a moment his lungs seized up and his vision dimmed, shock stilling every thought in his head.

He made an involuntary noise and Sherlock's eyes flicked to him. “John,” he said. “I'm terribly sorry about this. I realise you have questions, but I'm afraid they will have to wait until after this idiot is dealt with.”

There was a buzzing noise echoing in John's ears. Sherlock was alive. He must have been alive all this time while John grieved, while he walked through the routines of his life with a numb mind and an empty space in his chest, while he tried to resign himself to a future without the colour that Sherlock had brought with him. He made another, angrier, noise in his throat, and Sherlock winced.

“John-” he started in a voice that was almost apologetic, but was distracted from finishing his sentence by Moran, who cocked his rifle and aimed it at John's head.

“That's enough touching reunion bollocks,” he said.

“Yes, let's get down to business,” agreed Sherlock, tearing his attention away from John in order to focus on Moran. John took the deepest breath he could through the gag and tried to centre himself. The situation didn't really allow for him to get caught up in an emotional reaction. That would have to wait until later, when Moran was dealt with and he'd been untied. That's when he'd be able to punch Sherlock.

“Business,” repeated Moran scornfully. “This isn't business. You destroyed my business, remember? This is personal.” He grinned nastily. “I know all about you, Sherlock Holmes. Jim was watching you for years before he started to play. He knew all your weak spots, all your silly phobias.” He spread his arms in a gesture that took in the graveyard. “That's why I picked this place as a meeting spot.”

“Yes, very clever,” said Sherlock through gritted teeth. “Or it would be, if you had any idea why I avoid graveyards. As it is, you've just given me an advantage.”

“Advantage?” repeated Moran, smirking. “Nice try. You think I didn't scout this place out first? Nothing here but the dead. And that includes you.”

“I am well aware of my status,” said Sherlock, as if death was nothing more than an irritant.

Somewhere close by, a church bell began to chime, and Moran laughed again, sounding increasingly unhinged. “Midnight!” he announced gleefully. “The witching hour! I told you I knew all your weaknesses. Happy Halloween, Sherlock Holmes!”

Sherlock actually flinched, then glared at Moran with a look so black that John wouldn't have been surprised if he'd managed to strike Moran down with just the power of his hatred. “You have no idea the mistake that you've made,” he said. “As if it wasn't bad enough that you've hurt John and kept me from my life these last few months, you've now threatened my freedom.”

He straightened, looking even taller and thinner than John remembered him being. He wondered just how many meals Sherlock had skipped without John there to nag him to eat. The light reflected off his face, making it gleam as white as bone, and the shadows behind him seemed to darken and then move. John wondered if a fog was coming down because it really looking as if something dark was banking behind Sherlock, blending into his coat and making his face look as if it was floating in a cloud of darkness.

There was a creak and John tore his eyes away from Sherlock to see that the door of a near-by mausoleum had been flung open from the inside. A skeleton in a suit stepped out.

For a moment John thought he had lost it entirely, then he realised that it was Jack. Whatever make-up he wore to create the effect of a skull looked even more realistic in the dim light of the lantern and surrounded by gravestones.

“What a lovely surprise to see you, Sherlock Holmes!” he said brightly.

Sherlock made an angry noise and glared at Moran. “You've taken everything from me,” he said fiercely. “I'm going to make you _hurt_.”

Moran stared at Jack for a wide-eyed moment, the gun sagging in his hand, then his eyes snapped back to Sherlock. “You don't get me like that,” he said, bringing his gun up to aim at Sherlock.

Sherlock made a derisive noise. “What is that going to do to me? As you've pointed out, I'm already dead.” The shadows behind him were definitely moving now, rolling and boiling like a thunderstorm about to burst. John wasn't sure what to make of it at all. 

“Sherlock,” said Jack, sounding mildly disapproving in a way that jarred with the situation.

“You stay out of this,” snapped Sherlock without looking at him. “You've got what you want. You'll just have to wait for me to finish this before you collect.” 

Jack let out a sigh. “Be quick,” he said. “I've got an awful lot to do tonight.”

“I can't imagine this will take long,” said Sherlock. He spread his arms out wide and the shadows spread with them, so dark that they blocked out the graveyard behind him. They were twisting faster and faster, and John thought he could see horrible, leering faces morphing and disappearing in the depths of the black, all of whom were staring at Moran with the same look of intense hatred that Sherlock was giving him.

_Must be some sort of illusion,_ he thought, although he couldn't imagine how Sherlock was managing it. It looked horribly real. From the noise Moran made, it was clear he thought so too.

“Stop it!” he shouted, and fired at Sherlock.

John heard himself scream through the gag as the bullet impacted on Sherlock's chest and he pulled at the ropes tying him to the chair as if he'd be able to break them and get to Sherlock in time to stop it. Sherlock took a step backwards with the force of the bullet, but didn't fall or even look pained by it.

“Idiot,” he said to Moran. “You watched me fall four storeys and yet I walked away. Why on earth would a bullet be any more effective?”

John's heart was hammering in his chest and he clenched his fists as tightly as he could with the ropes in the way. He wasn't sure he could take much more of this.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” swore Moran, and John could see that he was shaking. He took a deep breath as if to steady himself. “Well, you might be some kind of freak, but we both know that John's about as normal as they come.” He swung his gun to aim at John instead.

“You really don't want to do that,” said Sherlock in a dark voice, stepping forward. The shadows moved with him, pushing at the boundary as if they were barely being restrained from rushing at Moran.

“Stop doing whatever it is you're doing, and tell me how I can kill you,” said Moran, his voice growing more confident, “or I'll shoot John in the head, and we'll see just how effective a bullet can be on a normal person.”

“Neither is going to happen,” said Sherlock through gritted teeth.

“Sherlock, you know the law,” said Jack in a warning tone.

“And you know how much I care about those laws,” said Sherlock.

“Don't-” started Moran, but he never finished what he was saying. Sherlock thrust out both his arms at him, unleashing the shadows. They dived straight at Moran, who shouted as they surrounded him, hiding him completely in a cloud of black. There was a gunshot that hit nothing, then a scream that was abruptly cut off.

“Sherlock,” said Jack with a sigh, as if disappointed. “Did you really have to?”

“Yes,” snapped Sherlock. “He threatened John.”

The cloud started to dissipate, sinking down into the ground and revealing Moran's gun lying on the grass where he must have dropped it, and nothing else. There was no trace of him at all, not even a blood stain. John heard himself make a shocked noise in his throat, trying to come to terms with what he had just seen. What the hell was going on?

Sherlock took three long strides to John, then fell to his knees in front of him. “John,” he said, reaching for the gag. “John, please say you're okay.”

“Christ. Jesus Christ. What the bloody hell is going on?” asked John the moment the gag was gone, with what he thought was remarkable restraint.

“I'm afraid it will take a while to explain,” said Sherlock. He ran his hands over John's shoulders and down his arms, then back up to cradle his face. “God, John. I am so sorry.”

“Sherlock,” said Jack. “I am running out of patience. We need to go.”

“At least let me untie him first,” Sherlock snapped back.

“Go?” repeated John. “What? You've only just come back!”

“I know,” said Sherlock as he undid John's hands. “And if I could stay, I would. Of course I would.” He left John's hands for a moment to lean forward and press a kiss to his lips. “I've been rather counting on getting home to you as a reward for the last few months, but Moran has ruined that now.”

He finally finished undoing John's hands, and John immediately used them to pull him back in, clutching at his shoulders so that he could feel the reality of him. “You can't-” he started, then had to stop as his voice broke. “Sherlock. You were _dead._ ”

“I still am,” said Sherlock.

“What?” asked John, staring at him. Sherlock lifted one of John's hands to his neck, over his carotid artery, and John registered for the first time that he wasn't just paler than he had been, but also colder. Warmer than the night air, but not as warm as a body should be. He felt for a pulse, but there was nothing. He gaped. “What?” he repeated.

“I told you my story once,” said Sherlock, bending to work on the ropes holding John's ankles to the legs of the chair. “Do you remember? The three brothers trying to escape a dull town?”

John remembered. “That was the night you first kissed me,” he said numbly.

Sherlock glanced up and nodded, then returned his attention to the knots. “It was a true story. Sherrinford, Mycroft and I escaped from the town where we were born. The town of Halloween. Not just a name; it's the geographical manifestation of the holiday. That's why- it's complicated, but death isn't really anything more than an annoyance to us.”

“What?” repeated John. “That's- Sherlock, you can't actually expect me to believe that!”

Sherlock tutted. “You watched me fall, John, and you've just watched me be shot. Surely that's enough evidence? And there's Sherrinford – he said he spoke to you.”

“Sherrinford?” repeated John. “That was- Jesus! That was real? I was drunk and half-asleep!”

Sherlock finished undoing John's ankles and sat back on his heels, taking hold of John's face again. “I wish I had time to explain this properly,” he said, and kissed John. “I wish we had a great deal more time, John.”

“You don't, though,” said Jack. “I've already spent far too long here. It's getting dark in America, and I really need to get over there and coordinate things. You know the Mayor won't cope if I leave him in charge for too long.”

“You could go without me,” said Sherlock. He didn't look away from John's eyes, and John slipped forward off the chair to kneel with him on the grass, where they were closer to the same level and he could wrap himself around Sherlock easier. He was really there, really alive. For the first time John felt the wonder of it start to sink in. He'd got his miracle.

Jack sighed. “You know I can't,” he said. “The law is the law. Holiday denizens must stay within their bounds.”

“You can't take him,” said John, glaring over at Jack. “I've only just got him back! I won't let you take him.”

“What could you do to stop me?” asked Jack. He took two steps forward, further into the lantern's light. “I'm Jack, the Pumpkin King, and it is the night of Halloween. My power is at its peak.”

In the full light of the lanterns, John could see that it wasn't make-up that made him look like a skeleton. He realised with a sickening shock that his head was nothing more than a skull, a living, moving skull.

“John,” said Sherlock, clinging to him harder. “I'm sorry; there's nothing to be done. I have to go.”

John turned his attention away from Jack and back to him. “I only just got you back,” he repeated. How could he get his miracle and then have it snatched away again so quickly?

Sherlock looked as miserable as John felt. He kissed him again, holding on so tightly that John thought he might be leaving bruises. He hoped he was leaving bruises. “John,” he said, and kissed him again, frantically. “John. I love you.”

“Oh,” breathed John with wonder. He'd never expected to hear those words, not from Sherlock, not even when he'd been picturing a lifetime with him.

“Oh,” said Jack in a sad voice at the same time. “Oh, Sherlock. You must have known that would end badly.”

Sherlock turned to glare at Jack but John pulled his face back to his before he could speak. He kissed him as thoroughly as he could, trying to say everything he was feeling, as if he could somehow imprint himself on Sherlock so that the memory of this moment would never fade, no matter how far away he was, or how much time passed.

“John,” murmured Sherlock again, against his lips.

The near-by church clock chimed the quarter hour, and Jack sighed.

“We really need to go,” he said, putting his hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

“No,” said John, clinging tighter. 

Sherlock shook his head and pulled away, standing up. “I'll see you next year,” he promised.

“Sherlock!” protested John, leaping up to chase after him, but it was too late. Jack pulled Sherlock back to the mausoleum with him, down the steps and into the darkness. The doors clanged shut behind them.

John ran to them and tried to pull them open again. If Sherlock couldn't stay, then John would go with him. Anything just to keep from being left behind alone again.

The doors refused to open though. When John inspected the lock, he saw that it was rusted solidly shut, as if it hadn't be opened in years. He rested his hand on the door for a moment, despair rushing through him. Less than half an hour and Sherlock was already gone again, gone somewhere John couldn't follow. How was that fair?

He almost gave in to it, his knees going weak in anticipation of him sinking to the grass and bawling his eyes out, but instead he pulled himself together and took a couple of ragged but deep breaths.

He turned back to the graveyard, looking at the chair, lantern and dropped rifle that were the only signs that something had happened here. He wondered if he should be calling the police, but he just couldn't face trying to explain any of what had happened, so instead he just left it all where it was, and headed for the nearest exit.

He clambered over the gate, then glanced about himself and realised that he knew where he was. If he was quick, he'd be able to catch the last tube home.

He used a payphone at the tube station to call in an anonymous tip to the police about the light in the graveyard. When they investigated they'd find the rifle; he couldn't leave that lying around for just anyone to find.

And then he got the tube home. It felt incredibly surreal to sit there with the usual late-night mix of tired theatre-goers and drunken revellers as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn't seen a man come back from the dead and then be taken away by a Halloween creature. He could barely get his head around it all himself - part of him was waiting for Sherlock to pop up and tell him that it had all been an elaborate prank.

Mrs. Hudson was already in bed when John finally got home, which was a relief. He wasn't sure what he'd have said to her anyway. 'Sherlock's alive, but he can never come home.' Surely it was better to just leave her believing him dead rather than try and explain?

He sank down into his chair with a cup of tea, still trying to process it all. It seemed even more surreal now that he was home in the familiar surroundings of 221B. Maybe it had all been a hallucination? But that didn't explain the lingering headache from Moran's drug, or the sense-memory of Sherlock's lips against his. Besides, John didn't want it to have been a hallucination, no matter how crazy the whole thing it had been. If it hadn't been real, after all, then Sherlock was still dead. Anything was better than that.

He found himself staring at the place on the mantelpiece where Sherrinford had used to reside. Sherrinford, who was apparently alive in some way. Christ, he'd sat there almost the whole time, when Mycroft hadn't had him, and seen so much. No wonder Sherlock had used to drag John to his bedroom rather than staying on the sofa when he wanted a good snog.

When the sun came up several hours later, John was still sat there. He'd run through the year and a half that he'd had with Sherlock, trying to put this knowledge about him into context. The problem was that he just knew too little about it all to know which of Sherlock's odd behaviour had been because he was some sort of Halloween creature, and which had just been Sherlock's own personality.

John glanced at the clock when the room was light enough to make him admit that the night was over. He debated going to bed, but there really didn't seem to be any point, so instead he got up and made himself another cup of tea.

He pulled down a mug for himself, and found himself staring at Sherlock's caffeine molecule mug, the one John had got him for the anniversary of when they had first met, and the realisation that Sherlock was actually alive – or close enough to alive for the difference not to matter - hit him like a splash of cold water. Sherlock was alive and well somewhere, walking and talking and sulking and annoying people and being a genius. John held very tightly on to the edge of the counter and took a breath, just letting the knowledge wash over him.

Which, naturally, was when Mycroft arrived. He came through the door without knocking, throwing it open with almost as much force as Sherlock would have, then stopped still when he saw John. He was carrying Sherrinford under his arm and John stared at the skull, trying to see some sign that it was alive, but it looked as inanimate as it always had.

“John,” said Mycroft, and then stopped, apparently stumped for what to say.

John left his mug on the side in order to go back into the sitting room, letting himself enjoy the sight of Mycroft looking lost for words. Sherlock would have enjoyed seeing that too, he thought.

No doubt Mycroft was trying to find a way to ask about Sherlock without giving away his status, in case John still wasn't in on the secret. John couldn't be bothered with any beating around the bush, so he came straight out with, “If you're looking for Sherlock, then you're too late. Jack took him away not long after midnight.”

Mycroft's face darkened and for a moment John thought he was going to go so far as to swear, but he managed to collect himself and stride across to settle in Sherlock's chair instead. “Tell me everything that happened,” he said, placing Sherrinford on his lap so that he faced John.

John sighed and sat down in his own chair. There was no way he'd be able to get rid of either of them until he'd gone through it all. Either of them. It still seemed insane that the skull was actually alive, and for a moment he found himself considering the 'hallucination' theory again. Well, maybe it was time to prove whether or not he was actually nuts.

He focused on Sherrinford, meeting his empty eyeholes. “Tell both of you, you mean,” he corrected. “Hello, Sherrinford.”

“Hello, John,” said Sherrinford, and suddenly there was life in what had been empty bone, animation in what had been just an object. And yet, it was still the same as it had always been, nothing more than a skull. John started, despite himself. “I suppose that means that everything has come out.”

John could feel himself staring. No matter that he could still vaguely remember speaking to him before, through a haze of alcohol, there was still something intensely unnerving about a talking, disembodied skull. “Jesus Christ,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face. “This is- this whole thing is insane.” At least it was the situation that was crazy, and not him. Well, not unless he was really crazy.

“And you were doing so well at taking it in your stride,” said Mycroft. “Keep it together, John, and tell us what happened to our brother.”

John took a deep breath. He could fall apart later, when he was alone. Right now, he needed to concentrate, or he'd lose his chance at getting some answers. “Only if you promise to answer all my questions,” he said.

Mycroft's mouth twisted and John prepared himself for a lengthy negotiation with him, but Sherrinford spoke first.

“Of course we will,” he said. “I think you're owed that much, at least.”

Mycroft let out a long sigh. “Sherrinford, are you sure that would be wise?”

“The time for secrets had passed, Mycroft,” said Sherrinford. “Besides, it's what Sherlock would want, if he were present. You know that he's been wanting to tell John for a very long time.”

“He has?” asked John. He'd spent most of the night going through all the occasions when Sherlock could have told him something and yet had kept his mouth shut, or even lied outright. That he had actually wanted to confess was news to John.

“Oh yes,” said Sherrinford. “I talked him out of it, I'm afraid. I thought he was risking too much, too quickly.”

“And you were right,” said Mycroft. “Look where his feelings for John have got him.”

“Oh, don't be bitter, Mycroft. We both know it's more complicated than that,” said Sherrinford. “Come on, John. Tell us everything that happened, and we'll explain the rest to you.”

John looked at Sherrinford, trying to work out if he was being sincere. Reading any sort of expression from the smooth bone was impossible though, so in the end he gave up and decided to just tell them. Mycroft and Sherrinford deserved to know what had happened to their brother, and he'd just have to trust that he'd get his own answers afterwards.

He told them all about the previous evening's events. When he reached the part where Moran wished Sherlock a happy Halloween and Jack appeared, Mycroft let out a short, frustrated breath.

“He must have known that was going to happen,” he said. “And even if, by some miracle, it hadn't, it was far too risky. What was he thinking?”

“He wasn't,” said Sherrinford. “Come on, Mycroft. John was in danger – if Sherlock hadn't gone, what do you think Moran would have done to him? Of course he wasn't thinking, or if he was, then he'd judged it worth the risk.”

Mycroft made a noise that gave away what he thought of that but didn't pass further comment, and John picked up the thread of his story again, describing what Sherlock had done to Moran as well as he could.

“Oh dear,” said Mycroft. “That will have annoyed Jack. The law is pretty clear on murdering people.”

Sherrinford snorted. “Jack was already annoyed. It's not exactly the first law Sherlock has broken.”

“He seemed more disappointed than annoyed,” said John, thinking back. “He didn't seem that happy about any of it, really.” He thought about telling Mycroft and Sherrinford what had happened after that, how Sherlock had kissed him and told him that he loved him, but it seemed far too personal to add in. Instead, he finished up with, “Anyway, Sherlock untied me, told me the bare minimum, and then Jack dragged him off back into the mausoleum and they both disappeared.”

Mycroft sighed. “Back to Halloween,” he said. “And there will be a watch on him now, I should imagine. It will not be so easy for him to escape again.”

“I should imagine Mummy is being insufferable,” added Sherrinford.

John felt himself go white as he remembered the actions of the mother in the story. “She's not going to cut his head off, is she?” he asked.

“Only if he lets his guard down,” said Mycroft. “I can't imagine he will.”

Sherrinford said, “I am probably the only Holmes who has ever been sentimental enough to think she wouldn't hurt us, and she managed to disabuse me of that notion rather effectively.”

Mycroft rested his hand on the top of Sherrinford's skull in what might have been meant to be a comforting gesture. “Rest assured, Sherlock will keep away from her,” he said to John. “Now he is in Halloween, Jack will have no interest in keeping him locked up. Oogie-Boogie is the only one kept under house arrest, and I strongly suspect that's only because he's so incredibly irritating.”

“Who?” asked John, then shook his head. “No, start from the beginning. I'm still not entirely sure I believe any of this.”

“You're talking to a skull,” pointed out Sherrinford.

“And it's really bloody disconcerting,” said John.

“I'm not sure telling you about our past will make you any less disconcerted,” said Mycroft. “Nevertheless, I suppose we did promise. Sherlock told you that we were from Halloween, yes?”

John nodded. “The geographical manifestation of the holiday, he said. As if that made any sense.”

“None of this will make sense if you insist on using the logic that your kind hold to,” said Mycroft.

John held his hands up. “Right, fine. Logic suspended. Go for it.”

“Some people claim that the holidays originate from the towns bearing their names, rather than the other way around, but it's impossible to say now,” said Sherrinford, in the tones of one settling in to a story. It sounded rather a lot like Sherlock had sounded when he'd started telling the story of his life. John wondered if he'd been consciously imitating his brother or not. 

“The holiday towns exist in what you might call another dimension, tucked away from your world but accessible in various ways, if you know the trick of it. Halloween is in part of that realm with the other major holidays of your culture – Christmas, Easter and so on. There are other areas with the holidays from other cultures, but we rarely have anything to do with them. In fact, for a very long time, each holiday conducted its business in complete isolation from the others. Life in Halloween has always revolved entirely around the things you would naturally associate with the holiday.”

“It is exceedingly dull,” put in Mycroft. “Bats and graveyards and all that kind of thing, and nothing to do but prepare for the holiday itself. The residents are largely what you might suppose to be supernatural beings: witches and vampires and monsters, and most of them are rather stupid.”

“Mycroft, don't be rude,” said Sherrinford.

“You know it's true,” said Mycroft. “There's no point in being nice about them when they're not around to hear it.”

Sherrinford sighed. “They can be a bit simple,” he acknowledged. “And they are very focussed on Halloween. If you're not, conversations with them can be, ah-”

“Excruciating,” suggested Mycroft. “That's why we left.”

“Yeah,” said John. “I know about that bit – Sherlock told it to me as if it were a folk story. Your mother tried to keep you there, and you ended up running away, and-” he stopped himself before he could say _she set you on fire._ It seemed a bit rude to mention that. “I suppose I just don't understand why it matters so much whether you're here or there.”

“That is all down to politics, I'm afraid,” said Sherrinford. “As I said, it used to be that the individual holidays didn't communicate with each other. However, there was an incident a few decades ago after which it was deemed a good idea to put in place a council of the heads of each holiday. They put in place strict laws about when denizens from each holiday were allowed to be in this world, largely in order to prevent another such incident occuring.”

“An incident,” repeated John flatly. “That's not particularly descriptive.”

Both Mycroft and Sherrinford were silent for a moment, and John rather got the feeling they were embarrassed, if Holmeses could ever manage such a thing.

“It was Jack,” said Sherrinford eventually. “He attempted to hijack Christmas.”

“He what?” asked John incredulously. Just when he thought this whole thing couldn't get any more ridiculous.

“It was an unwise plan,” said Mycroft. “It rather upset Father Christmas, who is one of the most powerful holiday rulers. He put the council into place, and together they all decided that strict rules were needed to keep such a thing from happening again. That's why we avoid celebrating any of the holidays, not just Halloween. We don't want to register on the radar of any of the holiday rulers, because if they find us, they will take us back to Halloween in order to enforce the law. It's not just Jack we have to avoid.”

“Father Christmas is out to get you,” said John, then laughed mirthlessly. “Okay, now I've heard it all.” He shook his head tiredly. “And now Sherlock has been taken back, he's trapped there again.”

“Until next Halloween,” said Sherrinford.

“And then, he will only have twenty-four hours before he has to return,” put in Mycroft. “Jack will be keeping an eye on him – it is unlikely he will be able to escape again.”

“Twenty-four hours,” said John, feeling lead sink in his stomach. One day a year was all he was getting with Sherlock from now on? He tried to tell himself that it was better than where he had been yesterday, when he'd thought Sherlock was dead, but it didn't really help. One day a year was just enough to keep him alive in John's heart, but not nearly long enough for anything else. He ducked his head and took a deep breath, aware of the scrutiny of the two Holmes brothers watching him – the wrong two Holmes brothers.

“I'm sorry,” said Sherrinford gently. 

John just shook his head. He wasn't sure he could cope with any well-meaning sympathy right now. “Could you just go?” he asked.

“Of course,” said Mycroft. He stood, Sherrinford cradled in his arm again, and then hesitated. “John, if there is ever anything we can do-”

John cut him off. “Unless you can get Sherlock back in this world, or me into his, there's nothing,” he said.

“Halloween is not particularly hospitable to your kind,” said Mycroft. “Our fathers would tell you that, if they were alive.”

“They weren't from Halloween?” asked John, looking up.

“They wouldn't be dead if they were,” said Mycroft. “The games Mummy played with them wouldn't have permanently hurt someone from Halloween.”

“Games?” repeated Sherrinford. “Hardly a game when it ends up with someone dead, Mycroft.”

“Life and death is the greatest game,” said Mycroft.

“Okay, you're being creepy now,” said John. “Please leave.”

“We'll keep in contact,” promised Sherrinford as Mycroft headed for the door. John was unable to hold in a groan at the prospect. “It's the least we can do,” added Sherrinford, “given how much you mean to Sherlock. He would never forgive us if anything happened to you.”

“I'm not sure I'm ready to forgive him for all this yet,” muttered John.

Mycroft paused in the doorway. “Be fair, John,” he said. “He was doing the best he could in a difficult set of circumstances.”

John just glowered at him, and after a moment, Mycroft let out one of his long-suffering sighs, then left.

“Bye, John,” called Sherrinford as they went down the stairs. “It was good to finally get to talk to you!”

John didn't respond. He stayed where he was, in his chair, trying to get his head around everything that they'd said, and match it up with everything that Sherlock had said and done. The whole thing seemed insane, but he couldn't deny the evidence of a talking skull, or of whatever it was that Sherlock had done to Moran, or even the existence of Jack himself. If John had gone insane, then he was jumping straight in at the deep end.

In the end, the sleepless night caught up with him and he took himself as far as Sherlock's bed and collapsed into it. After all, it seemed he had a whole year to think through it all before he had to decide what he was going to say to Sherlock.


	5. Chapter Five

Knowing that Sherlock was alive – or, at least, not dead in the way that most people understood it – did not make the drudgery of John's day-to-day life dissipate, or make time pass faster. In fact, now he had next Halloween and the chance to see Sherlock again to look forward to, it seemed to go even slower. The two months until Christmas went at a snail's pace, punctuated by a weekly visit from Mycroft and Sherrinford that John tried to be out for as often as possible, although he never actually succeeded. There was no way to hide from the British Government, he thought morosely the fifth time he came home from a long day hanging out in the nearest graveyard only to have Mycroft arrive five minutes later with a smug smile.

Sherrinford turned out to be a much better conversationalist than the other two Holmes brothers, if you could ignore the talking-skull aspect. He asked after the details of John's life in a way that betrayed just how much attention he had been paying as he sat on the mantelpiece for all that time. Once or twice he brought up a subject that John and Sherlock had discussed months ago, or that John had tried to discuss and Sherlock had dismissed as pointless, in order to give his views on it.

“It was frustrating at times,” he said when John commented on that. “I wanted to join in, or tell Sherlock to be less of a brat, or try and explain to you what he meant by some of his more cryptic or convoluted statements.”

“Why didn't you go and live at Mycroft's, then?” asked John. “You'd have been able to talk there.”

“I live alone, and spend a great deal of time at work,” said Mycroft. “When he is at mine, he spends a great deal of time on his own.”

“I like having people around,” added Sherrinford.

John nodded, remembering Sherlock saying the same thing about him. 

It wasn't until they'd gone that he realised that Sherrinford must be spending most of his time now sitting alone on Mycroft's mantelpiece. No wonder Mycroft kept bringing him around for tea. For a moment John wondered if he should ask Sherrinford if he wanted to return to his place at 221B, but he dismissed the thought. He was just about getting used to the idea of having tea with a talking skull; he wasn't sure he was quite up to the idea of living with one, even if he had before. Now that he knew Sherrinford was alive, it was a different thing entirely.

Mrs. Hudson decorated her flat and the hallway with holly and pine branches in the week before Christmas, then insisted on putting some on the mantel of 221B as well.

“Makes it look much cheerier in here,” she said, standing back to admire it. “I always thought it was such a shame that Sherlock was so against Christmas. I'm sure carols would have sounded lovely on his violin.”

“Most of what he played sounded lovely,” said John.

“Oh, yes,” agreed Mrs. Hudson. “When he wasn't making those awful noises with it. He was so talented. Oh, it's such a shame.” She stopped herself and gave a sad sigh, and John had to clench his fist and drive his nails into his palm to avoid telling her that Sherlock was still around, that he was probably still making an awful noise with his violin whenever he got stuck in a black mood.

Or was he? Mycroft had taken the violin after Sherlock's funeral, presumably to give to him, but Sherlock hadn't had it when Jack had dragged him away. Was he trapped without even his music to keep him company? A sick feeling sat in John's stomach. He might be Sherlock-less, but at least he still had his things, his work, and his friends around him. Sherlock was stuck without any of it.

“At least you can celebrate this year,” said Mrs. Hudson, pulling herself back together. “Put your cards up without risking one of his tantrums.”

“Yeah, that's true,” said John. She gave him a look that said she knew that he was thinking that he would much rather give up Christmas for the rest of his life if it meant he could have Sherlock back, and squeezed his arm.

John did put his cards up, although there were pitifully few of them. Mycroft and Sherrinford didn't come over for tea that week and John assumed that they had gone into hiding for the festive season. _In case Father Christmas finds them,_ he thought, then had to shake his head at the absurdity of it all. He'd thought his life was ridiculous enough when he was chasing after rooftops after criminals and opening the fridge to find body parts. Trust the Holmeses to find a way to make that seem positively mundane.

He spent Christmas Eve alone, despite Harry's attempts to get him to go to hers. He poured himself a drink the moment he could persuade himself it was late enough to be evening, then sat and watched some horrendous Christmas film that would have made Sherlock throw things at the screen, if he could have been persuaded to watch it in the first place.

At around six, as the sky outside went fully black, there was an odd thump from upstairs. John glanced up, then dismissed it as one of the many sounds that came from a house as old as 221 was. A moment later there was a scraping noise, and then another thud, as if something very heavy had fallen to the floor in John's bedroom – the room he barely used now that he'd taken to sleeping in Sherlock's bed more often than not. He stood up, intending to investigate, but before he could move, there were footsteps coming down the stairs, and the door flew open.

“I don't understand why so many houses these days have their chimneys blocked,” said the figure standing in it. “Don't people realise how tricky it is to get down to a bedroom window from a roof?”

John stared. The man was so fat as to be round, dressed in a red suit trimmed with white fur, and had a long white beard. “Jesus Christ,” he croaked.

The man scowled. “Not at all. Father Christmas,” he said. “Or Saint Nicholas, if you want to be religious about it, but that's not really your thing, is it?”

“Oh god,” said John, sinking back down into his chair. Knowing that Father Christmas was a real person was one thing, but having him break into his flat and be snarky about modern chimneys was quite another. His brain flicked back to the idea that everything since Halloween had been one long hallucination and that he was actually losing his sanity.

“No time for disbelief,” said Father Christmas. “I've got a lot to do tonight, as I'm sure you can imagine. I can't spend too much time here.”

John clutched at the arms of his chair and tried to get himself together. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “If you're here about Sherlock, he's back in Halloween now.”

Father Christmas shook his head impatiently. “I'm here about you,” he said. “It's not very often I get the chance to appear in person, not to an adult at any rate, and I thought you might like a rather special Christmas present.”

“Present?” repeated John.

“Of course!” said Father Christmas. “That is what I do, you know. You're on my Good List this year by quite a way, so I've come to give you something better than the rather ugly jacket your sister is intending to give you tomorrow.”

“Right,” said John. “Okay.” Of course, Father Christmas had arrived to give him a present, what else would he be doing here?

“Get up, then,” said Father Christmas. “I'll take you to it.”

“Take me to it?” repeated John. “Where is it?”

“In Halloween, of course,” said Father Christmas. “We both know there's only one thing you really want this year.”

John stared at him. The only thing he wanted was to see Sherlock. That was the only thing he'd wanted for months now. “You can do that?”

Father Christmas looked annoyed at the question. “Of course,” he said. “I can do almost anything on this night.”

John jumped to his feet. Father Christmas was right; there was no point in wasting time on being surprised. “Right, let's go then.”

“You'll need a coat,” said Father Christmas. “It'll be cold in the sleigh.”

“Right, of course. The sleigh,” said John. Of course they'd go in a sleigh. He grabbed his coat and tried to school himself to act as if this was all completely normal. A thought struck him. “Wait, does that mean we have to get back up to the roof?”

“No, no,” said Father Christmas. “Rudolph and the others will bring it down to the road for us. The roof thing is just habit, really, and it keeps me out of the way of traffic.”

When they got outside, Baker Street was deserted except for a very out-of-place sleigh parked right in the middle of the road, hitched to a long line of reindeer who turned to give John unimpressed looks.

“Right then. A sleigh,” said John.

“Get in, get in,” said Father Christmas. “I can only keep people away from a street this busy for a few minutes.”

John climbed into the sleigh, noticing the pile of sacks in the back. _Filled with presents,_ he thought, then had to shake his head to clear the overwhelming surge of _what the hell am I doing?_ He was going to see Sherlock, that was what he was doing. Nothing else was important.

Father Christmas climbed up after him and rummaged under the seat for a blanket that he handed to John. “You'll need this,” he said.

As John tucked it around himself, he became aware that flakes of white were beginning to fill the sky. “Oh, it's snowing.”

“Yes,” said Father Christmas, taking up the reins. “That's a side effect when I perform a Christmas miracle.”

John looked at the flakes settling on his arm. “I can't remember the last time it snowed in London for Christmas.”

“Then that's two miracles for the price of one,” said Father Christmas, and he flicked the reins. “Ho! Ho! Ho!” he intoned, and the reindeer all started moving along the road for a couple of steps before leaping up into the sky.

“Jesus Christ,” said John as they flew up above the rooftops and London began to fall away beneath them. He gripped at the edge of the seat, staring down at the city. “That's just amazing!”

“Thank you,” said Father Christmas, sounding rather smug.

The journey probably didn't take very long, but it seemed like ages to John. The anticipation of seeing Sherlock again was beginning to mount in his stomach, making impatience fizzle through him.

The sleigh headed up higher and higher over London, then turned to head north. John half-recognised the places they were passing over until they reached the North Sea and Father Christmas pulled on the reins and called, “Ho! Ho! Ho!” again. 

The reindeer went into a steep upward spiral, making the stars above them whirl and blur together. When they straightened out and started to descend again, John was completely lost. They were passing over a dark wood of leafless tress with white bark that shone in the moonlight, and which didn't look like any part of the world that he knew of. He wondered if that meant that they weren't in any part of the world he knew.

“Nearly there,” said Father Christmas. “Rudolph!” he called to the lead reindeer. “Head for the house of Sherlock Holmes!” He glanced across at John. “He's on my Good List as well, but not by much. You might want to suggest to him that he try a bit harder next year, or risk not getting a repeat miracle. This present is for both of you, after all.”

“Uh, right,” said John. “I'll mention that to him.” He wasn't entirely sure what Sherlock's reaction to being told to be good for Father Christmas would be, but he had a suspicion it would involve a fierce frown. Something to look forward to.

As the wood came to an end, the sleigh sank down low enough for John to see a graveyard stretching from it. It was a higgledy-piggledy mess of moss-covered, slanting graves, surrounded by a low brick wall topped with elaborate ironwork. Beyond that lay a dark town with twisting streets and grey brick buildings that looked extremely architecturally unsound. The reindeer flew them over the whole town, right to the other side where the cottages started to peter out into woodland again. 

Father Christmas flicked the reins so that they turned parallel to one of the lanes, slowing until they landed in front of a small cottage with a very crooked chimney. From inside, John could hear the sound of a violin playing something both beautiful and melancholy. His heart jumped into his throat. Sherlock did have his violin after all.

“I won't come in,” said Father Christmas. “Lots to do, and all that. I'll be back for you just before sunset tomorrow. Don't try and hide from me; it'll only irritate me.”

“I- right,” said John. He climbed out of the sleigh, his eyes fixed on the door that Sherlock was behind. The violin soared to single, high sound, then descended through a flurry of notes. He could remember Sherlock playing exactly that sequence in their sitting room, looking out over Baker Street and frowning with concentration.

“Time to go, boys,” said Father Christmas to his reindeer. “Ho! Ho! Ho!”

“Thanks,” said John belatedly, but it was too late. Father Christmas disappeared up into the sky, leaving him there. Well, no point in hanging about. John strode to the door and knocked on it. 

The violin paused long enough for Sherlock to shout, “Go away!” then started up again even louder.

“It's me!” called John, hammering at the door again. He hadn't come all this way just to be left out in the street.

The violin ended abruptly in a shrieking noise that made John wince for the strings, then there were hurried footsteps and the door was thrown open.

Sherlock stared at him with shocked, wide eyes.

“Hi,” said John after several moments had passed without anything more.

It broke Sherlock's frozen trance. “John,” he breathed, then stepped forward and enveloped him in a hug that John was more than happy to return. They clung to each other tightly enough to hurt, and John felt the solid, reassuring shape of Sherlock's body against his. Sherlock repeated John's name, then pulled back to stare into his eyes, as if making sure that it was really him.

“John,” he said for a third time. “How did you-” he cut himself off, glancing at the lane behind John. “Oh, no, obvious. Of course. Sleigh marks on the ground, and it's Christmas Eve. Father Christmas brought you.”

“Spot on,” said John. “Can I come in?”

“Always,” said Sherlock, pulling him inside and shutting the door behind him. 

The inside of the cottage was cluttered in the same way that the sitting room at 221B always had been, although John noticed there were rather more old bones and what seemed to be samples of poisons than he was used to. Sherlock didn't give him time to look around properly, instead he pushed John back against the door and kissed him as if he had been starving for it. John kissed him back just as desperately. It almost felt as if he had been starving for it, as if having Sherlock's lips against his was feeding something inside of him that had been withering away.

Sherlock pulled him to the sofa, cleared it of a layer of papers with a sweep of his arm, then pushed John down and settled himself on top of him, covering John's body with his own. He buried his face in John's neck and let out a long breath, relaxing his whole body into a boneless thing that melded perfectly against John's.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and let himself spend several minutes just revelling in his presence. Everything on Halloween had happened so quickly - he'd barely had time to realise Sherlock was alive before he was being dragged away again. It was bliss just to be able to hold him, and know he was alive and here with John, finally.

Alive was possibly a bit of a stretch. With Sherlock pressed so close against John's body, it was impossible to deny that he was lukewarm rather than a true body temperature, and that no pulse was throbbing under his skin. John carefully inspected what little of Sherlock he could see, but there didn't seem to be much other evidence that he was technically dead. The back of his head, which John had seen smashed in and leaking blood, looked like it might be a little flatter than before but it was hard to tell with all of Sherlock's hair in the way. His skin might have had a faint greenish-grey tinge to it, but Sherlock had always been so pale that it was only with careful observation that you could tell the difference.

“Father Christmas said he'd be back for me tomorrow before sunset,” John said after a while, when it didn't seem as if Sherlock was going to move, or speak, any time soon.

Sherlock nodded against his neck. “Twenty-four hours, from sunset to sunset,” he said. “That's Father Christmas's window. He'll have to take you back before then.”

“Right,” said John. “Bit less than twenty-four hours, then.” He sighed. “That's not nearly long enough.”

“No,” agreed Sherlock.

They stayed pressed together on the sofa like that for a long time. They talked a little – John updated Sherlock as much as he could on Mycroft and Sherrinford, then told him about his new job, about his evenings at the pub with Stamford, about Mrs. Hudson's latest book club intrigue. Sherlock didn't seem incredibly interested in any of it, but whenever John let his monologue end, Sherlock prodded him with questions until he started talking again. In the end John just gave in and indulged in a ramble about his life, such as it was without Sherlock to enliven it.

“What about you?” he asked eventually, when he really had run out of anything more to say. “What's it like here?”

Sherlock made a disgusted noise in his throat. “It's awful,” he said. “I hate it. There's _nothing_ to do, and everyone is extremely dull and they all think I'm mad for wanting to be anywhere else, and they all _watch_ me all the time, in case I escape again, and there's no crimes and nothing to do and I _hate_ it, John.”

John squeezed him even tighter, feeling impotent and useless. He knew all to well how badly Sherlock dealt with boredom. The idea that he never had anything to break the relentless monotony of life as well as no one who understood just how intolerable Sherlock found that made something in John's chest throb with pain. He wanted to be able to help in some way, but there was nothing he could do, not from London.

“And there's no you,” added Sherlock in a voice so quiet that John thought he was meant to miss it.

“I'm here now,” he said, all too aware of how woefully inadequate that was.

“Yes,” acknowledged Sherlock, and they lay together in silence for a while.

Some time later – John had long since lost track of time – there was a tap on the door.

Sherlock raised his head and shouted, “Go away!” loudly, right next to John's ear.

“Christ,” he said, flinching away. Sherlock's arms tightened as if in an automatic response.

Despite Sherlock's shout, the door clicked open. Sherlock let out a low groan of annoyance. “Piss off! I'm busy!” he snapped.

“I can see that,” said a voice, and John craned his neck to see Jack taking in their position.

Sherlock didn't move his position at all, which meant John was trapped in place - not that he was really interested in moving. He was perfectly happy where he was, and if Jack had a problem with it, then he could piss off.

Jack didn't seem to have a problem with it if the amused look plastered over his skull was any sign. He tipped his head to one side. “Hello, John,” he said. John wriggled enough of his hand free to be able to give him a brief wave. “I dropped by to find out why Sandy Claws had been here, but that seems obvious now.”

“Sandy Claws?” repeated John.

“He means Father Christmas,” said Sherlock into his neck.

“Ah, right,” said John. “Yeah, he brought me by for a visit.” He frowned. “You're not about to try and send me home, are you?”

“Of course not,” said Jack. “That would be rather cruel of me, don't you think?”

“You were the one to take Sherlock away in the first place,” John pointed out.

Jack sighed. “It's not what I would have chosen to have done,” he said. “And even if it had been, the impressive amount of suffering that he has been emitting ever since would have changed my mind.” John held tighter to Sherlock at that. He couldn't even begin to imagine how Sherlock was coping with the level of boredom he must be experiencing here. He used to be bad enough when it was just a few days between cases.

“I must uphold the laws, however,” continued Jack. “Most of the holiday council are still annoyed with me, and it would not be impossible for them to replace me as the ruler of Halloween. The Pumpkin King is not as ingrained in society's subconscious as Father Christmas or The Easter Bunny are.”

“You can disavow responsibility all you like,” said Sherlock. “It doesn't change that these stupid laws are your fault in the first place. Now, go away. I'm not wasting any more of our few hours together talking to you.”

“I'd have thought seeing John would put you in a better mood,” said Jack.

Sherlock blindly reached down to the floor for the first thing he could put his hand on, and then threw a femur at him. Jack darted back out of the door before it hit him, so that it just thudded against the wall instead. “Goodbye!” he called, and finally left.

John let out a long breath. “He creeps me out,” he admitted.

“He creeps everyone out. That's his purpose,” pointed out Sherlock. He finally pulled away a bit, raising his head so that he could look down at John's face. “It is the purpose of everyone from here.” There was a note underneath his voice that said there was more to what he was saying than what was on the surface.

John thought for a moment. “Mycroft creeps me out as well,” he said. “Sherrinford- well. He's an animated skull. Although, the more bad puns he tells, the less creepy he is. There was one about the milk from Anne Frank's dairy that silenced Mycroft for nearly ten minutes with pained horror.”

“And me?” asked Sherlock, looking as if he was trying to pretend the answer didn't matter to him, but failing.

John smiled and ran a hand through Sherlock's hair. “Even dead, all you make me feel is affection.”

Sherlock's face relaxed. “I'm sure I'll inspire annoyance as well before the day has passed.”

“Probably,” admitted John. “Still, you're not creepy. Even now you're – I don't know. A zombie?”

Sherlock looked mortally offended. “A _zombie_? Do I look as if I'm rotting? Or have any desire to eat brains? Or have lost all ability to string together rational thought? Honestly, John. A zombie!”

“I'm so sorry that I don't know the correct terminology for the precise variety of animated dead person that you are,” said John. “It's not really something we covered at school.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and it was so familiar that John couldn't hold back a smile. “I am merely dead,” he said. “There is no need to get technical about it.”

“Right then,” said John. “Have I told you yet how very glad I am that your version of dead is so very close to being alive?”

Sherlock blinked. “No,” he said. “I thought you'd be furious that I lied to you.”

“I was,” said John. “And then I got over it. Two months is a long time.”

Sherlock tightened his grip on John again. “It is,” he agreed. “And ten months is going to be even longer.”

They were both silent for a moment and John felt cold tendrils creep into his stomach that were all too aware of how little time they had now, and how long they would then have to wait before another day together.

Well, there was no sense in wasting all their time by dwelling on it. He cleared his throat. “Right,” he said. “Are you going to show me around, then?”

Sherlock blinked at him. “This is the sitting room,” he said. “There's a kitchen through there,” he nodded vaguely at a door behind them. “No bedroom – the dead don't really need to sleep. Or eat, but the kitchen is useful for experiments.”

“Thanks,” said John, “but I actually meant, are you going to show me around Halloween?”

“Why on earth would you want to see that?” asked Sherlock, apparently dumbfounded by the idea.

“Because you grew up here,” said John. “And it's where you live now. I want to be able to picture where you are when I'm back home.”

Sherlock was silent for a moment, then he nodded abruptly. “I can understand that,” he said. He glanced at the window, where it was still dark outside. “When the sun comes up, though. Halloween is not a particularly welcoming place for your kind of person, and especially not at night.”

“Ah, okay then,” said John. “Any chance of some food, then? I haven't eaten since lunchtime.”

Sherlock was silent for a minute or two. “I think the water might be safe,” he said after some thought. “And tomorrow we might be able to find some bread in town. Possibly.”

“What?” asked John. “Come on, Sherlock, I'll need a bit more than that!”

Sherlock shrugged helplessly. “Very little that we eat here is safe for you,” he said. “Even the things that wouldn't kill you would probably make you ill.”

“I- right,” said John, trying to absorb that. “Right, okay. So I'm just going to be not eating until tomorrow night?”

“That's one of the reasons why you can't live here with me,” said Sherlock. “This town isn't set up for people who are as fragile as you are.”

“Yeah, I'm getting that,” said John, deciding not to dispute 'fragile' with someone who jumped off a building and survived. He pulled Sherlock's head down to his so that he could kiss him. “Well, we'll just have to stay like this until the sun comes up then, and you'll have to distract me from how hungry I am.”

Sherlock smiled against his lips. “I approve of that idea,” he said, and kissed John again.

****

John eventually dozed off. When he woke up, Sherlock hadn't moved and was watching his face carefully.

“That should be creepy,” said John in sleepy tones.

“And yet, you don't find it so,” replied Sherlock.

“No,” agreed John, then pushed at Sherlock's shoulders. “Get off me now, though. My legs have gone to sleep.”

Sherlock got off him with far more grace than John felt was really fair in a man who had been in the same position for hours. Even, or perhaps especially, a dead one. He disappeared in the direction of the kitchen as John pulled himself upright and tried to shake feeling into his limbs.

Sherlock came back with an earthenware cup of water. “This shouldn't harm you,” he announced.

“How reassuring,” said John, but he took the cup and drank it anyway. It tasted stale and dusty, but otherwise seemed fine. “You're not having anything?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I'm dead,” he said. “Food is irrelevant. Do you still want to see Halloween?”

“Of course,” said John, setting the cup down amidst a pile of metacarpals.

“Come on, then,” said Sherlock, holding his hands out to help John up, and then steadying him when standing sent a rush of pins and needles up his leg. “Just don't touch anything unless I say it's okay, or wander off without me.”

“Why would I go anywhere without you?” asked John. “Seeing you is the whole point of this visit.”

Sherlock squeezed his hand and smiled, then led him out of the house.

The sun had come up but it was a weak, pale light. John squinted up at it, and was surprised to see that it appeared to be in the shape of a pumpkin. “Oh,” he said with surprise.

Sherlock followed his gaze. “This is a different world,” he reminded John.

“Yeah, getting that,” said John, glancing around again. It was one thing to just be surrounded by strange buildings and odd-looking trees, but quite another to look up and see that the sun had changed. “Do I want to know what the moon looks like?”

Sherlock shrugged. “It's just a bit larger than you'd expect,” he said. “Unless Oogie-Boogie is up to his tricks. Come on – I'll show you the town first, while most people are in bed.”

He lead John through several narrow streets that were lined with large, decaying mansions and dark, foreboding-looking houses. John had to admit that if he had been going to design a town that embodied the spirit of Halloween, it would probably look very similar. Occasionally a dark shadow moved in an alleyway, and at one point a cat hissed at them from the top of a wall, but apart from that, the place seemed deserted.

They turned a corner at a house that was shaped a lot like the head of a howling wolf, and John got his first sight of the other citizens of Halloween. There was a band standing at the side of the road playing a slow, mournful dirge together. The saxophone player was probably only as tall as John's waist, with a long, pointed chin and two tufts of ginger hair on an otherwise bald head. Beside him, a hulking mass of flesh was playing an accordion that seemed to be at least partly made from a dead fish, and a slightly shorter, but still just as thug-like creature was playing a double bass.

“Oh,” said John faintly. There was a tiny person inside the double bass. He couldn't tell if he was a child or just a very short man, but he looked dead, which was only emphasised by the coffin-like shape of the double bass.

Sherlock squeezed John's hand in a manner that was possibly meant to be reassuring. “Good morning,” he said.

“Yo, Sherlock,” said the saxophone player, stopping for a moment. “You going to jam with us today?”

“Not today,” said Sherlock. “I'm busy.”

The saxophone player nodded, looking at John with a great deal of interest. John tried hard not to stare too obviously back at him. “Always nice to have a friend staying,” said the saxophone player after a moment. “Of course, it's Christmas, isn't it?” He glanced at his two bandmates. “Time for a special tune? A-one, two, three, four...”

The band burst into the most depressing version of Jingle Bells that John had ever heard.

“Oh,” he said again, then felt he should perhaps try a bit harder than that. “That's- You're very good.”

The accordion player beamed at him, and the apparently-not-so-dead man in the double bass gave him a wink. John felt his eyes widen. 

Sherlock snorted with amusement. “Come on, I'll show you the main square,” he said, pulling him away.

“Right,” said John, faintly.

The funereal sound of the carol followed them down the road and once they were far enough away not to be heard, Sherlock said, “They've never really got the hang of any other tempo. I play with them sometimes.”

“Right,” said John. “They seem-” His mind went blank as he tried to think of an adjective for them. 

“Yes,” agreed Sherlock.

They emerged from the street into what must be the main square, and John looked around with interest. It was a large cobbled area lined with buildings that were larger than most of the others they had seen so far, and with a fountain in the centre. The liquid in the fountain was green and was falling from the mouth of a strange snake-like statue. 

There were more people out-and-about here, and John did his best not to stare. There were a trio of what had to be vampires, huddled under umbrellas and apparently having an argument with a strange, bat-like creature. Swimming inside the fountain was an odd fishlike creature, leaning on the edge and gesticulating as it talked to a thing with snakes coming out of its hands where fingers should be.

“That's the Town Hall,” said Sherlock, gesturing at the largest building on the square. There was a large clock mounted above it that read _310 Days Until Halloween_. “It's all pretty dull.”

“Not sure that's the word I'd use,” said John, as a pair of indistinct white shapes – ghosts? - swooped through the air past them.

“It would be if you tried to have a conversation with any of them,” said Sherlock. “Come on, let's-”

“Sherlock!” called a voice behind them, followed almost immediately by two more, overlapping each other.

“Sherlock!”

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock let out a sigh, and turned around.

Behind them were three short, dumpy women, dressed in black and wearing tall, wide-brimmed hats. One of them was clutching a broom. John immediately jumped to the obvious conclusion that they were witches, then wondered if he was stereotyping.

“Sherlock!” said one of the women. “So good to see you out!”

“You shouldn't stay in so much, you know,” said another.

“We never get to see you,” added the last.

They all spoke in fast, twittering voices, one after another without allowing a pause for Sherlock to reply.

“Oh!” said the first, catching sight of John. “Is this your young man?”

“He's very handsome,” continued the next, giving John a look that made him feel very uncomfortable.

“Much too alive, though,” finished the last. “Haven't you had a chance to break him in yet?”

“Silly!” said the first one to her. “He's meant to be alive.”

“He's not meant to be here though,” said the middle one. “Does Jack know?”

“Oh, don't make Jack angry!” said the last one.

Sherlock held up a hand. “Stop!” he commanded. Blissfully, they did. “John, these are my aunts, Agrippina, Toffana and Catherine.” John blinked with surprise. Somehow he hadn't stopped to consider that Sherlock might have extended family here. If he had, these three women were the last thing he would have pictured. “This is John,” continued Sherlock. “And yes, Jack does know he's here. It's only for the day.”

“Oh,” said the first one – possibly Agrippina, although Sherlock hadn't really been clear on which one was which. “Only a day!”

“You'll have to come to dinner,” said probably-Toffana.

“Yes!” exclaimed Catherine. “A family dinner so we can all properly meet you! I'll make newt's eye stew!”

“Um,” said John. “That sounds lovely, but-” He glanced at Sherlock for help.

“What John means to say is that we only have a limited amount of time, and we're not going to waste any of it with any of you,” said Sherlock bluntly. “Even this conversation has gone on too long.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” said Agrippina, disapprovingly.

“There's no need to be rude,” added Toffana.

“I like being rude,” said Sherlock. Well, John could testify to that.

“Is that why you haven't introduced your man to your mother yet?” asked another voice.

“Lucrezia!” exclaimed all three of Sherlock's aunts at once.

Sherlock made a noise that sounded an awful lot like a swear word. “No,” he said, turning to look at the newcomer. “You know very well why I don't want you near him, Mummy.”

_This_ was Sherlock's mother? She was as tall as he was, and had the same pale skin, but that was where the similarity ended. Her hair was a flamingly bright shade of red, and her figure was all curves, squeezed into one of the tightest black dresses John had ever seen, and a hat that was even wider than those of her sisters. Her lips and nails had been painted blood red. She looked far too young to have a child Sherlock's age, let alone ones as old as Mycroft or Sherrinford.

“Oh, don't be like that, darling,” she said. She tilted her face to one side in an obvious prompt. Sherlock huffed an impatient sigh, then dutifully kissed her cheek. She smiled at him brightly, then turned to focus on John, holding out her hand to him. “I am Sherlock's mother. You may call me Lucrezia.”

John reached automatically to take her hand but Sherlock grabbed tightly at his wrist to stop him. “Don't touch her,” he hissed.

“Honestly, Sherlock,” said Lucrezia.

Sherlock let go of John's wrist in order to grab his mother's. He turned her hand up and inspected her palm for a moment, then dropped it. “Arsenic,” he announced.

“Oh, really, Lucrezia,” said Agrippina, tutting.

“You've only just met him!” added Toffana.

“At least give him dinner first,” finished Catherine.

“Nobody will be giving John dinner,” said Sherlock. He grabbed John's hand. “In fact, if any of you come near him again, I'll wall you up in my cellar for a year or two. He's not for playing games with.”

“Rude!” exclaimed Agrippina, but Sherlock didn't seem prepared to hang around to hear what the rest of his aunts had to say. He pulled John off across the square at a speed that made heads turn to look at them.

John let him, perfectly happy to be getting away from the four women. Christ, and he'd thought meeting his first girlfriend's parents had been bad. At least her dad had only threatened to cut off John's penis, he hadn't actually tried to poison him.

“Did your mother just try to kill me?” he asked once they were out of the square and Sherlock had slowed his pace slightly.

“Don't take it personally,” said Sherlock. “She tries to kill almost everyone.”

“Right,” said John. “Okay.” He let a moment pass. “Suddenly, Mycroft's kidnappings seem almost normal.”

“Yes, he'd only kill you if he had a good reason,” said Sherlock. “Or if he thought you were with-holding cake.”

The road they were walking down was busier than the ones they had walked along earlier. It was lined with what looked like shops, although after glancing in the window of a butcher's, John was carefully avoiding examining their wares too closely.

A man walked past with an axe buried in his brain, but John was getting better at not staring too obviously. He merely examined the edges of the wound out of the corner of his eye and concluded that the axe must have been there for quite some time. _Must make getting through low doorways a pain,_ he thought.

Sherlock led John to a high iron gate made up of several old iron bars, and stepped between two that were bent apart enough to form a large gap. “Come on,” he said. “You may as well meet my other parent.”

John followed him through. On the other side of a gate was the old graveyard that he had seen from Father Christmas's sleigh. At ground level, he could see that it was filled with more mausoleums and elaborate memorials than John had ever seen outside of a film.

“No one here is really afraid of living the stereotype, are they?” he asked as they passed a large statue of a screaming figure.

Sherlock snorted. “I told you it was dull. Endlessly predictable.”

“You also said that people didn't stay dead here,” pointed out John.

Sherlock shrugged. “There are ways,” he said vaguely. “Although even they can be circumvented, if you're clever enough. Ooogy-Boogy has come back several times now. Most of these graves are just for show, really. Or are inhabited by ghosts. Bloody annoying things they are.”

There was an affronted humph from behind them and John's head whipped around, but the place still seemed to be deserted. “Right,” he said carefully, and quickened his pace to be able to take Sherlock's hand again.

They headed for a corner of the graveyard that was even more overgrown than the rest and stopped in front of a line of plain-looking graves lined up against the wall. They were easily the least elaborate memorials in the whole graveyard.

“These are my mother's husbands,” said Sherlock. “That one's my father,” he said, gesturing at one that read _Daniel_ and nothing else. “Or maybe that one,” he said, pointing to the next one, which said _Mark_. “When I asked her, she couldn't remember which order they came in.”

John stared at the row of graves. There had to be at least ten of them, all bearing nothing more than a first name. “These are _all_ her husbands?” he said.

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “I told you they never lasted long.” He pointed at one a few graves up that said _Nigel_. “We're pretty certain that one's Mycroft's father.”

John looked at the names on the graves. “No surnames,” he noted.

Sherlock shook his head. “She insisted they all take hers. I think she found remembering even their first names quite a trial. The only one I remember particularly well was the last one,” he gestured at the end of the row, where a Jerry was buried, “and I can remember him losing his temper because she spent two weeks calling him James.” He shrugged. “He was dead less than a month later.”

“And he didn't come back?” asked John. “None of them did? As ghosts, or whatever else it is you have here?”

“Of course not,” said Sherlock. “They came from your world, not Halloween. She'd go out into the world, find an easy mark and seduce him. Enough sex and he'd agree to marry her and come back here with her, and then she'd play the kind of games that hurt your kind until he died.” 

The way he spat out the word _sex_ told John rather a lot about how Sherlock must have come to view it, if he grew up watching that. “Right,” he said. “So, the no-sex thing isn't a Halloween thing, then?”

Sherlock shrugged. “It mostly is. The majority of people here don't bother with it. Mummy found a way to use it as a weapon though – there are rather a lot of people who are as scared of her type of woman as they are ghosts or vampires.” He reached out and took John's hand. “The council put an end to her marriages, though. It's hard to pick up a husband when you've only got one day a year to do it in and besides, they also forbade us from actually killing people. Frightening is fine, but actually harming one of you is illegal. Apparently holidays shouldn't be deadly, they should be _fun_.” He spoke the last word in tones of deep disgust.

“You killed Moran,” John pointed out.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes. They were a bit angry about that, but then, I was already in quite a bit of trouble. Really, how can they expect me to obey their laws when they're so unendingly stupid?”

“They don't really seem to be punishing you for it,” said John. Sherlock's cottage was hardly a prison cell, after all, and none of the people they had met had seemed to treat Sherlock like a criminal.

Sherlock shrugged. “They knew that just being here was punishment enough. Besides, Jack has a soft spot for me. We used to do experiments together when I was a child.”

A mental image flashed into John's head of a much younger version of Sherlock and a walking skeleton in a pin-striped suit bent over a corpse together. “Please never tell me what kind of experiments,” he said, forcing the image away.

Sherlock grinned at him. “I'm willing to bet they weren't as disturbing as whatever it is you're picturing.”

John shook his head. “I'm not taking that bet,” he said. “Your idea of disturbing doesn't really match up with mine. And yes, I am referring to the kidney experiment.”

Sherlock let out a long-suffering sigh that John could tell was entirely faked. “The kidney experiment was the logical follow-up to the case with the lobsters. You should have been able to predict that I would do it.”

“When have I ever been able to predict you?” asked John. “Almost nothing you do is what I would have expected.”

“Would you want it to be?” asked Sherlock. “Predictable is _boring_.”

John thought of the dull inevitability of his days back at Baker Street now that Sherlock was gone. “Yes,” he agreed softly. From the look that descended over Sherlock's face, he was thinking of the predictability of his own life now, and John squeezed his hand. Time to distract them both from the reality of their situation. “Come on, let's find some of that bread you thought might not kill me. I'm starving.”

They went back into the centre of the town where Sherlock found some pumpkin bread that, after a careful examination, he pronounced to be safe for John.

“There's a lot of pumpkin-related products here,” said John, examining the shelves of the bakery.

“I know,” said Sherlock grimly. “Pumpkins are the only thing that will really grow here.”

“Got to love a bit of pumpkin!” said the baker, who John had been trying very hard to pretend wasn't a werewolf. “Pumpkin and a bit of nice, fresh liver – the perfect diet!”

Sherlock made a face. “Dull,” he said, paying for the bread with what looked like a handful of sweets. “I never thought I'd miss your risotto this much,” he added to John. “Or a really good cup of tea.”

“There's no tea?!” exclaimed John.

Sherlock gave him a pained look. “There's _pumpkin_ tea.”

John shuddered at just the idea.

“Lovely stuff!” said the baker, apparently oblivious to John's reaction. “Goes down a treat after a run through the woods. The only thing better is a cup of mulled blood, but that's hard to get these days.”

John blanched. Sherlock immediately put his arm around his shoulder. “Idiot!” he hissed at the baker as he steered John out of the shop.

“I told you most of what counts as food here isn't suitable for you,” he said once they were back in the street.

“Yeah, I'm getting that,” said John. He looked back at the bread they'd bought. “You're absolutely certain that's okay?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock confidently. “It's definitely got nothing that's poisonous to you in it, and there's only a four percent chance that it contains something that was originally human.”

“Four percent?” repeated John. He gauged his level of hunger, which was really very high given that he hadn't eaten for nearly twenty-four hours, then sighed in defeat. “I suppose I'll have to risk it, then.”

“You do enjoy a gamble,” Sherlock reminded him. 

John gave him a black look. “Not the kind that could end with cannibalism,” he said.

Sherlock let out a long sigh. “So picky, John.”


	6. Chapter Six

They took the bread to a small lake, where John sat down on the grass and Sherlock sprawled against him.

“Next time, I'm having a massive dinner before I come,” said John after he'd polished off the bread. It had been really rather unsatisfying given how hungry he was and had contained far too much pumpkin, but at least nothing about it had tasted like it might be human flesh.

“Order everything on the menu at Bombay Express, and bring the leftovers with you,” suggested Sherlock. “I should imagine I'll be ready to kill at the sight of pumpkin by then.”

“You said you didn't need to eat,” John reminded him, watching as a duck swam across the lake towards them and wondering if it wanted some of the crumbs left from the bread. Was it okay for ducks to eat pumpkin?

“I don't _need_ to do a lot of things,” said Sherlock, picking up a stone and throwing it at the duck.

He missed, but it hissed at him in response, revealing a mouthful of razor-sharp teeth. John flinched in surprise. “Christ!”

Sherlock glanced at him. “Don't assume anything here is safe.”

“Yeah, I'm getting that,” said John. “Jesus. No wonder most people are dead here.”

“Most people are dead everywhere,” said Sherlock. “It's just that here they stick around.” He turned in order to put his head in John's lap, and John took his chance to stroke a hand through his hair. They'd never really had lazy days like this back in London. There had always been something to do, whether it was a case or an experiment, or an attempt to distract Sherlock from the fact that there was neither a case nor an experiment. John rather liked being able to just sit and talk with Sherlock, even if it wasn't as exciting as the things they'd used to do in London.

Of course, that didn't mean he wouldn't much rather be at Baker Street, trying to keep Sherlock from doing something dangerously reckless. However much he tried to focus on the moment, he could feel the silent countdown ticking away, bringing them ever closer to sundown and separation. The fact that Sherlock was apparently content to not actually be doing anything was enough on its own to signal just how wrong things were. He must find Halloween incredibly boring if he wasn't dragging John off to show him something, or getting him involved in something that was far too much fun to be a good idea.

When they could no longer deny that the sun had started its inevitable descent downward, Sherlock let out a frustrated huff and sat up. “This is just-” he said, then broke off, his hands clenching into fists. “There should be something we can do,” he said.

“Is there?” asked John.

“No,” gritted out Sherlock. “Not without risking losing even the chance of seeing each other for two days a year.”

John nodded and gazed off across the lake. He could see a tree with several skeletons hanging from its branches by nooses, apparently all having an argument with each other. Probably best not to ask.

Sherlock groaned and collapsed back onto John's lap with enough force to make John wince. “It's all just so _frustrating_.”

John looked at the sun again, mentally measuring the distance it had left to travel. He wasn't sure he could stand to just sit here and watch it get lower and lower as their time ran out. “Right,” he said decisively. “Come on, then.” He pushed Sherlock off his lap and stood up.

“Where are we going?” asked Sherlock, staying slumped on the grass where John's shove had left him.

“I don't care,” said John. “Show me more of this place, or just lead me in a big circle, anything, but if we stay sitting here, just waiting, we're both going to go nuts.”

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, then nodded and leapt nimbly to his feet. “We did always did a lot of walking together,” he said.

“And running,” said John. “Don't forget the running.”

Sherlock grinned. “How could I forget your valiant attempts to keep up with my stride with your little legs?”

“Piss off,” said John, taking Sherlock's hand as they started walking.

Sherlock lead him back to the graveyard, but they crossed it in a different direction to the one that lead to the graves of Sherlock's father and Lucrezia's other husbands. As they passed a small, kennel-shaped grave, there was a faint whooshing noise and what had to be the ghost of a dog appeared. John stopped in surprise.

“Piss off, Zero,” said Sherlock. “You're not coming with us.”

The ghost flapped around him in a tight circle, apparently as overjoyed at the prospect of a walk as living dogs were. He stopped at Sherlock's feet, looking up at him beseechingly.

“Go away,” said Sherlock.

“Oh, let him come,” said John.

Sherlock shot him a dark look. “Dog-lovers,” he muttered, but he didn't try and stop Zero from following them as they crossed the rest of the graveyard, then walked over the weirdest bit of landscape John had ever seen – a furled tendril of land which further confused him by moving under their feet, unravelling so that they could walk down into a field filled with pumpkins.

“Christ,” he said, glancing over his shoulder as the thing curled itself up again.

“I told you they grow a lot here,” said Sherlock, apparently oblivious to the real reason for John's surprise. “All year round, as well – no respite from the damned things, even in the middle of winter.”

There was a scarecrow in the middle of the field with a pumpkin for a head. At Sherlock's words, it swivelled towards them and glared at him. “Piss off,” it said. “No one expects you lot to only be around for one season a year, why do you do the same for us?”

Zero darted over to sniff at it, but Sherlock just ignored it in a haughty way that said he wasn't stooping to speaking to fruit. 

“Come on,” he said to John, who had slowed to stare at the scarecrow. They crossed over a thin, narrow bridge into the woods that surrounded Halloween. “Hardly anyone comes out this way,” he added.

John looked around. “Can't imagine why not,” he said. The trees were a pale colour and completely leafless, and there was no undergrowth to speak of to hide just how black the soil was. He remembered Sherlock saying, what seemed like a very long time ago now, that Sherrinford used to take him on walks through the woods. “Is this where your brother used to bring you?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded. “I liked being able to get away from everyone,” he said.

John looked around again, this time picturing two brothers wandering between the trees, the smaller one asking a constant stream of questions. He'd never really been able to picture Sherlock's childhood when he'd been back home, but it was all too easy to imagine here.

“I still come out here a lot for that reason,” added Sherlock. 

“It's peaceful,” allowed John. Peaceful like a corpse, but that was probably the best you could get in Halloween.

They wandered aimlessly for a while. They saw the skeletons of some reindeer off in the distance, which Zero rushed over to investigate but Sherlock dismissed with a shrug when John asked about them.

“One of Doctor Finklestein's experiments,” he said. “He does some very odd things in the name of science.”

“This from you?” asked John in disbelief.

“My experiments are to gather data for my work,” said Sherlock. “He's just got a thing about creating life. That sort of thing doesn't end well. Apart from anything else, it's a lot harder to get rid of it afterwards. Most of the population growth in Halloween is his fault.”

They went a bit further and John became slowly aware that Sherlock was taking him somewhere specific. “Where are we going?” he asked.

“There's only one thing worth seeing in these woods,” said Sherlock. “I thought we might as well see it while we're here. It's just a bit further.”

John glanced at the sun. “Only a bit further?” he said. He was distracted from Sherlock's reply by Zero, who came and pressed an icily cold nose against his leg and gave him a pleading look that John recognised immediately, despite the differences between Zero's face and that of a living dog. He glanced around until he'd spotted a stick, then picked it up and threw it off into the woods. Zero immediately dashed after it, and Sherlock made an aggravated noise that John ignored as Zero came rushing back with it. What was the point of taking a dog on a walk if you didn't play with it?

Their destination wasn't 'just a bit further'. The sun was dipping towards the horizon before they got there and John glanced at it, thinking about Father Christmas's admonishment not to hide from him.

“Should we be getting back?” he asked.

“No point. He can come and get you wherever you are,” said Sherlock. “Besides, we're here.”

They stepped into a clearing that was surrounded by a ring of trees that were considerably larger and older than the others in the wood. Each tree had a door in it, all of them different shapes and colours.

“These are the entrances to the other holidays,” said Sherlock.

John looked around. They were between a tree with a Christmas tree-shaped door and one with a clock pointing to midnight, and further on he could see a heart, a shamrock, a jester's hat, an Easter egg, a St George's cross, a maypole and a bonfire. They were all brightly-coloured enough to almost seem to be glowing.

“So we could just open a door and go to any of them?” he asked.

“If we wanted to cause rather a fuss, yes,” said Sherlock. “I should imagine the other holiday worlds are as dull as this one, though. They're all so monomaniacal.” He gestured off to their left. “If you head that way, there are other circles for other cultures – Halloween is in a few, in one form or another. The American one is probably where our biggest tree is, but I thought you'd be more interested in this circle.”

John looked around again, noticing that although the trees were all bigger than normal trees, they weren't all the same size. Christmas's was by far the biggest, while May Day's was only slightly bigger than the normal trees behind it. He walked over to rest his palm on the Christmas tree door. It was warm and faintly thrumming under his palm.

“I am,” he said. “Thanks for bringing me. It still seems so weird that these places actually exist, despite having spent the day in one of them.”

“Your world seemed rather strange to me, the first time I went there,” said Sherlock. He looked around at the doors and scowled. “They're the ones keeping us apart. Before there was a council, I could have done as I pleased, and stayed in London with you always.” 

He sounded miserable and frustrated, and John immediately went back to him, putting one hand to his face and taking Sherlock's hand with the other. There was no platitude to offer though, nothing that could make this horrible situation any better.

Sherlock clutched at John's hand. “It's getting dark,” he pointed out, completely unnecessarily. John was completely aware of how close to sunset they were.

“I know,” said John, feeling just as miserable as Sherlock looked. Their day was nearly over, and it was going to be ten months before their next one.

“It's so unfair,” said Sherlock. “You're the one person anywhere, in any world, that I actually want to be around, and I'm not allowed to be. For stupid reasons! Because Jack had a bad idea _decades_ ago! Two days a year is not enough, John.”

“I know,” said John again, trying to swallow back the emotion rising up in his throat. “Sherlock, I know. I don't- I can't stand it either.” He took a breath. “We weren't expecting today, though. We're one up on where we were yesterday. And maybe- I don't know. I don't know how it works, but couldn't we persuade Cupid or whoever to let us have Valentine's together? I do love you, after all, and you said you-”

“You do?” interrupted Sherlock.

John stared at him. How could he not know that? “Of course I do.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “You've never said it.”

“I never thought I'd need to,” said John. “You observe everything.”

Sherlock pulled him in and kissed him deeply. “Not everything,” he said. “Some things need words.” He paused, then added in a bit of a rush, “I love you, too. I know I said it before, but- it hasn't changed. I can't imagine it ever will.”

John pushed his fingers up into Sherlock's hair, keeping their faces only inches apart. “Well, then, maybe we should try asking Cupid,” he said. “However ridiculous that seems to say.”

“The ruler of St. Valentine's is not Cupid,” said Sherlock. “It's St. Valentine. There are lots of cupids and they're all intensely annoying, but St. Valentine is a bit more rational. He might well agree to let us meet, but it might have to be in his domain.”

“I don't care where it is,” said John. “That would give us three days, that's-”

Sherlock's face transformed into pure realisation in a way that John instantly recognised, and which usually signified that a case was all over bar the final showdown. “Stop talking,” he commanded, holding up a hand.

John stopped talking.

“Three of them on our side,” said Sherlock, stepping away from John in order to spin around in the centre of the clearing, looking at the doors again. “You said Father Christmas mentioned doing this for us again next year – that's a commitment. He thinks we should be together. Jack said he wished he didn't have to follow the rules. St. Valentine's would be on the side of love – he is ridiculously sentimental that way. I bet we could get St. George as well – well, you could. He has a soft spot for soldiers, and you were a scout as well, weren't you? He'll love you. That gives us four. We only need two more to get a majority, and then- John! We can get them to change the law!”

“We can?” asked John, looking around at the doors again. All they had to do was get a majority vote? Well, okay, that might not be as easy as it sounded, but he had enough confidence in Sherlock's ability to manipulate to admit it wasn't completely inconceivable that he'd be able to do it.

“It isn't a certainty,” allowed Sherlock, “but it's worth a chance.” He spun again, then stopped at May Day's door. “Queen May might go for us. She has a soft spot for lovers, although she tends to prefer the physical act to the emotional. I suppose I could try having sex with you if that was what it took.”

“How flattering,” said John. Hopefully it wouldn't come to that – he wasn't sure he'd be able to stomach having sex with someone who was forcing themselves to do it to please some obscure holiday ruler.

Sherlock ignored him.

“The others- there must be one more. We must be able to make there be one more – the Easter Bunny, maybe. I am dead, after all; it would be a resurrection.”

“Bit longer than three days,” said John. “And I'm not really sure you should be comparing yourself to Jesus.”

Sherlock ignored that as well. “We need Jack,” he said, looking around again. “He can call the council for us. Zero!”

The ghost dog came whooshing out from between the trees, settled at Sherlock's feet and gazed up at him with overwhelming joy at having been acknowledged.

“Get Jack,” said Sherlock. “Bring him here. It's extremely important.”

Zero turned in a tight circle of excitement, then disappeared back in the direction of town.

“How handy to have him along with us,” observed John. It had been nice having a dog with them as they walked, and John had rather enjoyed throwing sticks for him, and seeing his mounting excitement at the game. Perhaps...

“You're not getting a dog,” said Sherlock, interrupting his thoughts as if he could hear them.

“Why not?” asked John. “It would be good company.”

“I'm good company,” said Sherlock. He stepped back to John, catching up his hands. “And this is going to work. We'll persuade them to let me come home with you. You won't need a dog.”

He sounded as if he was going to try and make it happen by sheer willpower. John thought to himself that if anyone could manage that, Sherlock could.

****

Jack turned up quarter of an hour later with Zero gambolling around his feet and occasionally barking excitedly. He was accompanied by a woman wearing a patchwork dress who had stitching running across her skin. John tried to remind himself that it was impolite to stare, but couldn't stop himself from trying to work out just what the stitching was holding together – they looked a lot rougher than any sutures he had ever seen.

“All right, Zero! All right,” said Jack, fending away Zero's enthusiasm. 

“Hello, Sherlock,” said the woman, cheerfully. “Oh! And this must be your John. Jack said he was here.” She held out a hand to John, who wasn't sure how to take being referred to as if he was Sherlock's possession, but he shook her hand anyway. It was made of material as if she was giant, living ragdoll, but it was as warm as flesh would be.

“Sally,” said Sherlock in acknowledgement before turning briskly to Jack. “We need you to call the council.”

“What?” asked Jack. “Why?”

“We want to petition them to make an exception to the law for me,” said Sherlock. “I think we can get the majority voting for us.”

Jack sighed. “Sherlock, you can't-”

“Yes, I can,” interrupted Sherlock. “And even if I can't, it's worth trying. I can't stay here like this, Jack. You know I can't.”

“The council are still annoyed with me,” Jack said. “They have long memories. Why should I risk upsetting them further? It's Christmas Day! Father Christmas will-”

“He's already on our side,” interrupted Sherlock. “John wouldn't be here if he wasn't. And you'll vote for us, we can get St. Valentine, St. George, possibly Lady May and the Easter Bunny-”

“Sherlock,” started Jack with exasperation.

“Jack,” said Sally. “Give them this chance. You know what it's like to be finding everything here tedious.”

Jack looked at her for a long moment, and there was a moment of silent communication between them that spoke of a long-held and deep affection between them. John found himself wondering if he and Sherlock would ever have long enough together to be able to manage that. He really hoped they would.

“And what it's like to find someone who can break through that tedium,” said Jack finally. “Okay, fine, I'll do it.”

“Get on with it then,” said Sherlock with his usual level of graciousness. He stepped back and gestured at a tree stump in the centre of the clearing. 

Jack strode over to it, placed his hand palm down on the centre of it and said in a loud, clear voice, “Halloween calling the council.”

The tree stump started to glow a faint gold colour. After a few seconds, all the doors began to glow the same colour, throbbing slightly as the light grew. There was a faint humming noise, then the doors all bulged outwards for a moment as the tree stump exploded with light. John took a step back, blinking the black spots left on his vision away as the humming and the lights all abruptly ceased.

There was a hushed silence for a moment, then the door marked with the St. George's cross burst open, revealing a knight in full armour. “What ho!” he called as he stepped through, ducking his lance to get it through. “Pumpkin King, it is good to see you once more!”

“Hello, George,” said Jack.

“Father Christmas is going to be grumpy about this,” said a man dressed as a medieval jester as he came through the door that was the same shape as his hat. He sounded rather pleased about the prospect.

“Yes, it's a bit much to interrupt him with an unscheduled meeting when he's trying to work,” said a man who could only have been Guy Fawkes, shutting the bonfire door behind himself.

If John hadn't already spent most of the day feeling as if he was caught in a particularly surreal dream, the arrival of the council would have definitely pushed him to wondering just what he'd eaten the night before to prompt this. The existence of a man-sized rabbit in a pink sash alone was enough to make him wonder how on earth his life had reached this stage.

Sherlock rested his hand on the small of John's back and John glanced at him. “Every time I think I've got a handle on just how crazy the situations you lead me into are, you manage to top them,” he said to him in an undertone.

“I am somewhat of an over-achiever,” acknowledged Sherlock.

Father Christmas was the last to arrive, and he came down in his sleigh rather than through his door, landing in the centre of the clearing and missing all the surrounding trees with an impressive level of expertise.

“Jack!” he said. “I am trying to work! This better be important.”

“Told you he'd be pissed off,” said the jester, doing a little dance on the spot that made his bells jingle.

“Shut up, Fool,” said Guy Fawkes.

“My apologies,” said Jack to Father Christmas. “Although, it is partially your fault we are here. I was persuaded to call the council on someone else's behalf.” He gestured at Sherlock and John, and everyone turned to look at them. John cleared his throat awkwardly and tried to look like the kind of person you'd want to do a favour for.

Father Christmas sighed. “I thought I told you not to play any games with me,” he said to John. “This is a very busy day for me, you know.”

“Most of your work was done by dawn, and you were almost certainly on your way here to pick up John anyway,” said Sherlock, gesturing over at where the sun was setting, out-of-sight behind the trees. “Stop complaining.”

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock's words didn't seem to do much to make Father Christmas less annoyed. This plan was going to go nowhere fast if they couldn't even keep their current allies happy. John cleared his throat. “I'm sorry if we're keeping you from anything,” he said, “but we're hoping to save you hassle in the long run.”

Father Christmas looked partially mollified. He climbed down from his sleigh with a sigh. “All right, go on then,” he said.

“I wasn't aware that non-council members could present to the council,” said the elderly man who had come through the clock-shaped door. “Are we really expected to come running for just anyone? Especially anyones who have already caused us problems?”

The only woman on the council, who was dressed in a long, white shift and covered in garlands of flowers, tipped her head to one side. “Oh, he's one of the Holmeses, isn't he?” she said. “He has led us in a merry dance for a good many years.” She must be the Queen May that Sherlock had mentioned earlier.

“This council has made laws that have had a significant impact on my life,” said Sherlock. “I demand the right to present my case here.”

“What he means,” put in John quickly, in the spirit of diplomacy, “is that surely any governing body should be prepared to hear feedback from the people who are affected by the laws it makes?”

“He has a point,” said Guy Fawkes. “If King James had been more ready to hear criticisms, perhaps I would not be here now.”

“Ah, do be quiet now, Guy,” said the man who had come through the shamrock door in a thick Irish accent. John assumed he was St. Patrick, although he seemed to be drunk which didn't seem that saintly. “We've all heard that complaint more times than there are potatoes in Ireland.”

“I say we let them speak!” said St. George in a booming voice. “It is what honour commands of us!”

“Oh, very well, then,” said the old man. “But be quick. I only have a week of life left, and there's a lot to do before I hand over to 2012.”

“I shall be as brief as possible,” said Sherlock. “We merely wish to protest the law that keeps us apart, and ask for an exception. As Jack will tell you, I don't participate in the work of Halloween, and haven't for a very long time. I can't imagine that I ever will, so the reasoning behind the law is irrelevant to me. I won't be meddling in anyone else's holiday – in fact, whilst in the world I didn't celebrate any holiday at all, in any way.”

“Because you were hiding from us,” put in Father Christmas.

“I wouldn't have done so anyway,” said Sherlock. “If I'm not interested in my own holiday, why should I be interested in any of yours? All I want is to be able to live and work as I have been doing all these years, years in which nothing I have done has had any impact, negative or otherwise, on any of you.”

“Not true,” said the Easter Bunny. John had just about got used to the existence of a giant rabbit, but hearing him actually talk made him start. “You have prevented John Watson from celebrating our holidays.”

“Ooh, that's true,” said the Fool. “He used to play some lovely tricks, you know.” He looked at John. “Do you remember sending your sister the letter pretending to be from the bus company, telling her she was banned for life from all their buses? I liked that one.”

John blinked. That had been the April Fool's Day when he was twelve and Harry had been fourteen. She'd been convinced by it for nearly five hours, during which time she'd indulged in some really impressive histrionics. When she'd found out it was just a joke, she hadn't spoken to John for a week. 

“Ah, thanks,” he said.

“If I don't need to hide from you, he can celebrate all he likes,” said Sherlock. “I'll even let him decorate the flat.”

“I can't imagine I'll bother if I'm living there alone, though,” added John. “Holidays without the person you care about seem rather pointless.”

There was a sigh from Queen May. “That much is true,” she said. “It is wrong to keep lovers apart.”

“Are they really lovers?” asked the old man. “Halloween isn't really noted for its capacity for love.”

“They are,” said Jack. “I've seen them together, and apart, and it's enough to know that they truly care for each other.”

“Me too,” said Sally, who John had forgotten was there, keeping well back in the trees. “I've seen how Sherlock suffers without John.”

“I'm not prepared to believe either of you on this one,” said the old man. “I'm still not convinced that this isn't the start of some ploy of yours to take over someone else's holiday.”

Jack let out a long sigh. “That was one time! Honestly, can't you let it go? You years always get so suspicious and paranoid at this time of year, 2011.”

“I can vouch for them,” said a man who had remained silent so far. He was dressed in a pale pink toga which had flowers and hearts embroidered up the side, and he was carrying a bow and a quiver. “I can feel the love flowing between them, and it is true and strong. They should be allowed to spend their lives together.”

Oh god, had his relationship with Sherlock just been given a ringing endorsement by St. Valentine? John added that to the list of things he hadn't ever considered possible but that Sherlock had brought into his life, then spoke up to confirm it. No point in being a typical reticent man about his feelings if letting the truth out would aid their cause.

“I love Sherlock,” he said, trying to put every bit of certainty he felt about that statement into his voice. Sherlock twitched, and John remembered his surprise when he'd said the same thing earlier. He put his arm around Sherlock's waist. “The last few months without him have been awful.” The ring of council members looked interested, but not as if they were being inspired to help them. John cast around for something more to add that might help. “If you allow him to come home with me, I'll celebrate all your holidays as much as you want. I'll go all the way with them – decorations, cards, parties, presents, whatever. I'll do it all, for the rest of my life.”

That seemed to have some impact on the council members. Clearly, bribery was the way forward.

Father Christmas shifted and said, “You both will.”

“What?” asked Sherlock.

“If we vote to allow you to be an exception to the law, you will celebrate with John,” said Father Christmas. “With as much enthusiasm as you can. And without bringing any Halloween elements into it.”

Sherlock looked completely taken aback, but after a moment he nodded. “If that's what it takes.”

“I still don't like it,” said 2011. “If we let one person be an exception, what's to stop others wanting the same?”

“Apart from the Holmes brothers, I can't think of anyone else who would ever want to leave Halloween,” said Jack. “Is your realm really so unhappy that your people want to desert it?”

2011 directed a glare at him. “Of course not! No one has ever even thought about leaving.”

“I think we can safely say that the Holmes brothers are the complete exception on that one,” said Father Christmas.

“It is puzzling,” said the Easter Bunny. “Visiting the world for a day is nice, but I can't imagine wanting to live there.”

“Not with their attitudes to punishing lawbreakers,” said Guy Fawkes darkly. “I mean, really – surely you only need to either hang or draw or quarter someone? All three is just excessive! And don't get me started on the yearly effigy burning – that's just rubbing salt in the wounds!”

“So you always say,” said St. Patrick. “Endlessly. Might I point out that you avoided all three by jumping from the scaffold?”

Guy Fawkes scowled. “No one remembers that these days. You know that what is assumed about us is what becomes truth – you hardly started off with a drinking problem.”

“It's not a problem, it's just celebration!” snapped back St. Patrick. “The real problem here is your chip about a mutilation that never happened!”

“I was tortured for days!” exclaimed Guy Fawkes.

Things looked as if they were about to descend into an argument that would derail this whole thing entirely. John cleared his throat. “Ah, you know we don't actually do any torture or mutilation any more, right? We don't have any form of capital punishment.”

Guy Fawkes glowered at him. “It was enough that you did once,” he said. “And it's not as if you don't still burn me every year.”

“And if they didn't, your realm would be as diminished as mine is now that maypoles are out of fashion,” said Queen May. “Don't complain about the ways in which you are celebrated unless you wish your holiday to go the way of Lammas.”

There was a general shudder from the group, and one or two of them glanced at a dead tree that John hadn't noticed before.

“Enough talk,” said Father Christmas. “Time for the vote. I vote to allow Sherlock Holmes to return to the other world with John Watson. People should be allowed to take comfort in the presence of those they care for, after all. Good will towards all.”

“I vote the same,” said Jack. “I'm rather sick of Sherlock's endless pining.”

“And I vote against it,” said 2011. “Laws are laws, and there should not be exceptions. Besides, I'm not interested in furthering Jack's plans for conquest.”

“I don't have any!” protested Jack, but was ignored.

“I vote for them. Lovers shouldn't be divided,” said St. Valentine.

Queen May nodded her agreement. “They are rather sweet together.”

John grimaced at being thought sweet, but didn't complain. If it got him one step closer to having Sherlock back, he'd take sweet. Hell, he'd even take cute, if he had to.

The Fool scoffed. “We all know you're just so desperate for celebrants that you'd agree to anything if someone promised you a dance and a bunch of flowers.” He looked at John and Sherlock, tipping his head to one side while his body moved the other, then did a sudden back flip that made John blink. “I'm voting against it,” he said once he'd righted himself. “Where's the fun in just giving people what they want?”

“Thou art far too contrary, friend Fool! These are good men,” said St. George. “Together they right many injustices. I vote for the proposal.”

The Easter Bunny gave a little hop, as if thinking. “I vote no,” he said eventually. “People should stay where they're from, just as rabbits stay in burrows and eggs stay in baskets.”

“I also vote no,” said Guy Fawkes. “However indirectly, they work for the Crown.”

“Oh, come on,” said Sherlock. “Do you really still hold that much of a grudge?”

Guy Fawkes glared at him. “When you've had your entrails pulled out of your still-living body, then you can judge the longevity of my grudge,” he said.

“That never happened to you!” protested Sherlock.

“It feels like it did! That's enough,” said Guy Fawkes.

“Right, that's four votes against, and five for,” said Father Christmas before another argument could ensue. “A clear majority is needed to change any law, so it all comes down to you, Paddy. For or against?”

St. Patrick had produced a pint of Guinness from somewhere and was swaying slightly on his feet, but he was still sober enough to give John an assessing look. “You're English,” he said.

Oh God, they were going to lose their chance to be together because of centuries of cultural animosity. John mentally went his family tree with as much speed as he could. “My Great-Grandfather came from Cork,” he remembered.

“Ah!” said St. Patrick, his eyes lighting up. “You'll wear the green on my day, then?”

John nodded firmly. That wasn't exactly a difficult compromise to make. “And drink as much Guinness as I can,” he said. “And so will Sherlock.” He'd even support Ireland in the Six Nations if it came to it, though he wasn't going to suggest that unless there was no other choice.

Sherlock scowled. “I hate Guinness,” he muttered.

“Come now, 'tis the nectar of the Gods. If you wish, though, whiskey will do,” said St. Patrick. “As long as it's Irish, of course. Drink Scotch and I shall send the leprechauns after you – and don't even dare to think about American whisky. I'll put snakes in your bed.”

Sherlock made a face. “I think I can safely promise never to drink American whisky,” he said. “I do have standards, you know.”

St. Patrick nodded, then looked at Father Christmas. “I vote for them, then.”

Sherlock relaxed in a way that made John realise just how tense he had been and turned to John with a beaming grin, grabbing for his hand and squeezing it as Father Christmas said, “Right then. That's four against, and six for. Sherlock Holmes will be allowed to make his home wherever he pleases, on the condition that he doesn't spread Halloween to other times of the year, and that he and John Watson celebrate each holiday to the fullest extent possible.”

John clutched back at Sherlock's hand and then, when that wasn't enough to demonstrate his emotions, reached for his neck and pulled him down into a kiss.

“Oh, aren't they lovely?” said St. Valentine.

Sherlock pulled away and made a face that John could sympathise with, but mercifully didn't say anything that might make St. Valentine change his mind about voting for them.

“I'll give you both a ride back to London, then,” said Father Christmas. “Come on.” He started to climb back into his sleigh and John went to follow, but Sherlock didn't move, keeping John tethered to his side with his arm.

“What about my brothers?” he asked. “Does this decision extend to them?”

“Do not ask for too much,” said 2011. “If they wish an exception to the law to be made for them, they will need to make their own cases to the council. Until then, we shall continue our attempts to return them to their proper place.”

Sherlock nodded as if that had been what he expected. “And I expect they'll continue to easily evade you,” he said. “Come on, John. Let's go and give Mrs. Hudson a surprise for Christmas.”

They got into Father Christmas's sleigh, which was rather tight squeeze with all three of them in it. Not that John particularly minded having to press close against Sherlock, one arm wrapped around him so that they'd fit better.

“I'll need to pick up a few things from my cottage,” said Sherlock.

Father Christmas let out a sigh. “I'm not actually a taxi service,” he said, but when he picked up the reins, he said, “Sherlock's cottage!” to the reindeer, before starting them off with a, “Ho! Ho! Ho!”

They landed in the lane outside Sherlock's cottage. “Wait here. I won't be long,” said Sherlock and slipped out of the sleigh. He was back within five minutes, carrying his violin case and an enormous black bag.

“That's not a few things!” protested Father Christmas.

“It is only two things, in fact,” said Sherlock, slinging the bag into the back of the sleigh, which was now empty of presents. It made an odd clattering noise as it landed, and John wondered what the hell was in it, but decided against asking. He'd learnt that sometimes ignorance was bliss with Sherlock.

Sherlock climbed back in, holding the violin carefully on his lap, and they took off again.

As they soared through the sky, Father Christmas muttering to his reindeer about being taken advantage of, John looked at the violin case with a frown, thinking of the last time he'd seen it. “Mycroft took that,” he said.

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “He got it for me so that I could have it while I was working on bringing down Moran. When Jack dragged me off, I made him go and fetch it from the hotel I was staying in.”

“And it was the only thing you took when you left Halloween the first time,” said John, remembering the story.

Sherlock shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “I like having it with me,” he said. “It helps prevent boredom.”

“And boredom is the greatest possible evil,” said John with a grin, remembering Sherlock's many rants against it. He was likely to hear many more now. He couldn't wait.

Sherlock hesitated. “I would have said that six months or a year ago,” he said, slowly. “Now, though, I know that boredom is nothing compared to having to be without you.”

John blinked at the unexpected sentimentality, then tightened his arm around Sherlock. “You'll never have to worry about that happening again,” he vowed.

Sherlock stared at him intently as if trying to gauge the truth of the statement, which seemed ridiculous because John had never meant anything more in his life. After a moment, Sherlock's face creased into a tiny smile.

“Good,” he said, leaning into John and resting his forehead against his. “That's very good.”

****

Baker Street was deserted when Father Christmas landed the sleigh, even though it was only early evening. John thought that having the ability to clear people out of an area like that might well be the best thing he'd ever seen. It would definitely make getting the tube at rush hour a lot less stressful.

“Right, get out,” said Father Christmas. “I want to get home – Mrs. Claus will be wondering where I've got to.”

“Thank you very much for everything,” said John as he climbed out.

Father Christmas waved that away. “Giving people things is my whole purpose.”

“Well, thank you anyway,” said John. “It means a lot to us.”

“Just make sure you're good next year, then,” said Father Christmas. “And have a proper Christmas! None of this sitting alone with a couple of cards on the mantelpiece – it almost wasn't enough to give me an in, you know.”

“We'll do it properly next year,” promised John. “We'll have a party or something.”

“We will?” asked Sherlock, pulling his bag out of the back of the sleigh.

“Yes,” said John firmly. “I'll get a Christmas jumper. You can wear reindeer antlers or something.”

Sherlock looked horrified. “I will not. You can celebrate Christmas and still retain some dignity, you know.”

“Of course you can. It's not as fun, though,” said Father Christmas. “Perhaps I'll see you next year, then.”

He pulled the reins and the reindeer started moving, soaring up into the sky with the sound of Father Christmas's “Ho! Ho! Ho!” echoing across the rooftops.

“Right,” said John, turning towards the door of 221. “Time for a cup of tea, I think.”

“Yes!” said Sherlock, sounding more excited than John had ever heard him sound at the prospect of food or drink. “Tea completely free of pumpkins, and made by you. Fantastic.”

John made tea, and Sherlock drank it with an enthusiasm that John suspected wouldn't last long, then they sat on the sofa together and pretended they were watching the Doctor Who Christmas Special, while actually just getting as close to each other as they could, entangling their limbs and indulging in long, slow kisses that felt as if they could go on forever. It was almost as if Sherlock had never been away, as if the last few months were nothing but a bad dream. After all, where else could he have been when he fitted so perfectly here, stretched out over John with one hand resting on his side, underneath his jumper?

“When's Mrs. Hudson back?” asked Sherlock as the credits rolled on Doctor Who. John presumed that The Doctor had defeated the alien menace, but he really couldn't have said how.

“She's at her sister's until tomorrow afternoon,” said John. “Rather late, probably, if they get started on the sherry over lunch.”

“So we have another day to ourselves,” said Sherlock.

“Yes,” agreed John, smoothing his hand down the length of Sherlock's spine. A thought occurred to him. “How are you going to explain your resurrection?”

“I'm not,” Sherlock said. “I'll just imply it was faked, make vague references to help from Mycroft and my homeless network, and leave it at that. People will make up their own theories to explain it.”

“You're going to ignore all their questions and just look mysterious, aren't you?” said John.

Sherlock grinned at him. “Of course I am,” he said. “You know me too well.” He was silent for a moment, then added, in a more serious tone, “You do know me now, John. You know all those things you wanted before – about my family and where I grew up and all that. You know all my secrets.”

“ _All_ your secrets?” asked John sceptically.

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder. “You know all the important ones. It doesn't get much bigger than 'I'm from a holiday world', you know.”

“No,” agreed John. He thought about that for a moment, about finally having all the pieces to the puzzle that was Sherlock. Even with them all laid out before him, he wasn't entirely sure he'd ever fully understand him. That was okay, though – he understood more than anyone else, and enough to know that he loved him, and was loved by him. “I'm honoured,” he said eventually.

Sherlock snorted. “It wasn't exactly my choice,” he pointed out.

“I'm honoured anyway,” said John. “You could have just looked mysterious and made vague allusions to Mycroft and your homeless network, after all.”

“You wouldn't have believed me,” said Sherlock. “You're not an idiot.”

John laughed. “That's not what you usually say.”

“I'm feeling rather generous today,” said Sherlock.

“Can't imagine why,” said John, then kissed him again. He felt almost giddy, suffused with happiness and the knowledge that they had the rest of their lives to lie together like this. Well, when they weren't chasing around after criminals. God, his life was going to get _interesting_ again. He couldn't wait.

****

Mrs. Hudson took the news of Sherlock's return rather well, considering. She had to have a sit down, then she berated him for a while, but after that she brought him a cup of tea and a plate of mince pies, and ruffled his hair.

“Oh, you're cold,” she said, and Sherlock twitched away from her hand. “And so pale, too!” she continued. “You've not been taking care of yourself, have you? We'll have to work on feeding you up, won't we, John?”

“Ah, yes,” said John. Sherlock was not noticeably dead, not in the way a real corpse would be, but he was pale in an unhealthy-looking manner, and his skin never quite seemed to warm up. He wondered if that was going to cause problems for them.

“I'm fine,” said Sherlock testily. “I've always been pale. Stop fussing.”

Mrs. Hudson tutted but left it at that for the moment.

After she'd gone, John took the chance to ask, “What are you going to do if someone does notice you're, you know. Less alive than you were?”

“Mock them,” said Sherlock. “Come on, John, do you seriously think anyone is actually going to be observant enough to tell whether or not I have a pulse? Even if they do, they'll rationalise it away – I'm walking and talking, therefore I can't be dead. People don't like to see the impossible.”

Mycroft and Sherrinford came over the day after Boxing Day. Mycroft clearly knew that something had happened, or he wouldn't have come around so soon after Christmas (John wondered what his surveillance equipment had shown of Father Christmas's visit, and then thought that Father Christmas must have some way of foiling CCTV, or he would be less of a myth and more of a provable fact), but he still looked as surprised as John had ever seen him when he saw Sherlock.

“You escaped again?” he said.

“No, look properly, Mycroft,” said Sherrinford from his position cradled in the crook of Mycroft's arm. “He was let go.”

“We negotiated with the council,” said Sherlock. “They were rather reasonable about the whole thing.”

That was not how John would have described it, but he didn't quibble.

“So we no longer have to hide?” said Mycroft.

“Ah, no,” said Sherlock. “ _I_ no longer have to hide. You two will have to go and negotiate your own freedom.”

Mycroft made a face. “I'm not debasing myself like that. Besides, Guy Fawkes has a great deal of animosity towards me – I'm not sure it would be a good idea to be in the same place as him. Being dead would make my yearly medical examinations at work rather tricky.”

“It's not as if they've ever looked for us with any particular zeal,” said Sherrinford. “I think most of them are content to just make sure we keep quiet and out of their way.”

“Not in my case any more,” said Sherlock. “They want us to celebrate everything.” He made a face.

There was a tiny pause as that sank in, then both Mycroft and Sherrinford began to laugh. John had never heard Mycroft laugh before, and certainly not so hard that his face went red. It was incredibly disconcerting.

Sherlock huffed and looked affronted. “Yes, all right,” he said tetchily. “That's enough of that.”

Mycroft calmed enough to say, “All of them? Even May Day?”

“Oh god, are you going to put a maypole up in here?” asked Sherrinford. “Please, please take pictures, John. I'll pay thousands for them.”

“You don't have thousands,” Sherlock pointed out. “You don't have any money at all.”

“I do,” said Mycroft. “I would be happy to give you hundreds of thousands for such pictures, John.”

“There will be no pictures,” said Sherlock. “And no maypole either. I'm sure we can find a way to celebrate that will be more dignified.”

“You could always dance around John's maypole,” said Sherrinford lasciviously. John was reasonably sure he'd have winked, if he had eyelids. The double entendre caught him off-guard, and he felt his ears go faintly pink.

“Not happening,” said Sherlock with a black look. “Which is probably for the best, as it would count as necrophilia at this point.”

John blanched. Oh god, that was true. Well, there was even more reason not to mind being celibate for the rest of his life. As much as he didn't really mind the changes death had worked on Sherlock's body, he didn't fancy having sex with someone colder than normal and lacking a heartbeat.

“You know, I brought you a present back,” continued Sherlock to Sherrinford, “but I'm beginning to think I might just keep it.”

“A present?” asked Sherrinford. “Fine, I'll stop teasing. Where is it? What is it?”

“Isn't it a bit close to Christmas for presents?” asked Mycroft.

“Not for me,” said Sherlock. “Besides, it's not so much a present as returning to you something that was already yours. Let me get it.” He went into his room and came back with the black bag he had brought back from Halloween.

“I've had a lot more experience of finding things now,” he said as he unzipped the bag. “Mummy thinks she's good at hiding things, but compared to some of the criminals I've faced, she's an amateur. I doubt she even knows it's gone yet.” He took hold of something inside the bag and pulled it out, standing as he did so to allow it to unfold and settle into place.

It was a complete skeleton, all carefully joined together and lacking only the skull. John stared at it in surprise, then glanced at Sherrinford. It was almost impossible to tell an expression on his skull, but there was an air about him that said he was just as gobsmacked as John, if not more so. Mycroft certainly looked surprised.

“My body!” exclaimed Sherrinford.

“What's left of it,” corrected Sherlock.

“Put me on it,” demanded Sherrinford. “Come on, put me on it now.”

“Of course,” said Sherlock. “John, if you could just hold it up for a minute.”

“Right, of course,” said John, moving forward to take hold of the collarbones and keep the skeleton upright while Sherlock picked up Sherrinford. He flipped him over and examined his underside for a minute, then turned him back the right way up again.

“Are you going to be able to connect yourself, or should I use some wire?” he asked.

“I think I can do it myself,” said Sherrinford. “I can sort of feel it, you know. I think-”

The skeleton's left arm twitched, and John nearly dropped it in surprise.

“Yes!” said Sherrinford with triumph. “It's there. You can just put me on top.”

Sherlock did so, carefully lining the skull and the spine up. They clicked into place together, and then Sherrinford let out a low, “Oh,” and the whole skeleton gave a wriggle. “Let go,” he commanded.

John gingerly let go and stepped back, half-expecting the whole thing to just crumple to the floor, but it stayed up. Sherrinford stayed up. He tilted his skull from one side to the other, then brought his arms up and rotated his wrists.

“I'm back!” he said, and looked at Sherlock. “Look, Sherlock, I'm back!” He bent his knees, then carefully took a step or two before bursting out into laughter. “I can walk again! I can move!” He took off around the room in a spinning dance of delight that reminded John of the way Sherlock reacted to the news of a serial killer. “I don't have to just stay where I'm put any more! This is brilliant. Sherlock, thank you. Thank you so much.”

Sherlock shrugged. “It gave me something to do while I was there,” he said as if it was nothing, but John could see how pleased he was at Sherrinford's reaction.

“I'll be able to do things by myself again,” realised Sherrinford. “Enough clothes, and a big scarf or something, and I'll be able to go out. Mycroft! We can go to the Tate without everyone thinking you're a pretentious weirdo artist-type.”

“I rather enjoyed them thinking that,” said Mycroft, but he sounded just as happy as his two brothers were. He looked at Sherlock. “This was well done, Sherlock. Thank you.”

Sherlock sniffed at him. “I didn't do it for you,” he said.

Sherrinford crouched down by the bookcase, then sprang to his feet in one motion. “Brilliant!” he said, then reached out and picked up a book. “Look! I can pick things up. I'll be able to read again without someone else turning the pages.” He flicked through the book, then put it back, just as there was the creak of a footstep on the floor outside.

“Sherrinford!” hissed Mycroft. Sherrinford instantly froze against the wall, leaning back against it as if he'd been propped there.

The door opened and Mrs. Hudson bustled in with a tray. “I've brought you some tea up,” she said. “Not that I'm your housekeeper, Sherlock, but I thought Mycroft might need some tea after the last few months. And a scone or two - I made far too many, you'll be doing me a favour of you eat them.” She caught sight of Sherrinford. “Oh! Sherlock! When did that arrive?”

“Very recently,” said Sherlock.

“Oh dear!” she said. “You do have the oddest taste in interior design.”

“You can hardly talk,” said Sherlock. “You have doilies.”

“I can make you one to go under your skull if you like,” she said, glancing around. “Oh, it's gone.”

“There is no need for any doilies in this flat,” said Sherlock, with a firmness that immediately made John plot to put doilies under everything next time Sherlock was being annoying.

“I'm sure there's no need for skeletons either,” said Mrs. Hudson. “At least it's clean, I suppose. It's the things that are still rotting that I really object to. Well, I'm sure you've got a lot to talk about. And apologise for,” she said, giving Sherlock a meaningful look.

“Mycroft knew I was alive, Mrs. Hudson,” said Sherlock.

“Did he?” said Mrs. Hudson, and she turned her look on Mycroft. “You could have said something!”

“That would rather have spoilt the plan,” pointed out Mycroft.

Mrs. Hudson sniffed. “Perhaps you don't deserve tea and scones after all. I've a good mind to take them away again.”

“John deserves them,” said Sherlock.

“That's true,” said Mrs. Hudson. She gave John the kind of look you'd give a small puppy who'd lost his favourite squeaky toy. “You poor dear. Honestly, Sherlock, I hope you realise just how lucky you are that he's so forgiving.”

“Of course I do,” said Sherlock.

“I'm not that forgiving,” said John. “You're going to pay me – and Mrs. Hudson – back by keeping rotting flesh out of the flat.”

Sherlock scowled. “That will considerably hinder the cause of forensic science.”

“That's better than hindering my ability to cook in an environment that won't give me food poisoning,” replied John.

“Exactly,” said Mrs. Hudson. “Well, enjoy the scones, John. I'll be back for the tray in a bit.” She bustled back out again and Sherrinford straightened up from the wall.

“She's such a dear,” he said fondly. “Do you know, she used to come up and dust me when you were away for a few days, Sherlock?”

“Did she?” asked Sherlock. “Well, she won't need to do that any more. You can dust yourself.”

“And you'll hardly fit on the mantelpiece now,” said Mycroft.

Sherlock looked Sherrinford up and down as if he'd only just realised that a skeleton took up a lot more space than a skull. “You can have John's room.”

Wait, he could what? “Hang on,” said John, “don't I get a say in that?”

“Having two rooms between us is really just greedy,” said Sherlock. “It's not as if we use them both at the same time.”

That was true, but John still felt he should protest. It was his room, damn it. He'd decide if, and when, he was going to give it up. “Don't you think I need at least one place in this flat that isn't completely taken over with your junk?” he asked.

Sherlock tipped his head to one side and regarded him for a long moment. “No,” he said eventually. “I think if you wanted somewhere that didn't have me in it, you wouldn't have left all my things spread out everywhere while I was gone.”

John opened his mouth to deny that, then realised he couldn't. He liked having all the reminders around him that Sherlock was actually here with him. He sighed and rubbed at his face. He'd only been up to his room once since Sherlock had come home, and that had just been to fetch some clean clothes. He'd been barely using it even before that – he couldn't remember the last time he slept in the bed up there rather than in Sherlock's. “Oh, fine then,” he said. “Sherrinford can have my room.”

“Very kind of you, thank you,” said Sherrinford. “I won't always be here, of course – you'll still be able to use it when I'm at Mycroft's.”

“If you wished,” said Mycroft, “I could provide you with your own flat.”

Sherrinford's skull jerked around so that he could stare at him. “Where I'd be alone? Why would I want that? I might as well be in a grave.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Mycroft,” said Sherlock.

Mycroft held both his hands up defensively. “I was merely making the offer,” he said. “It will remain open, if you change your mind.”

“Why would I?” asked Sherrinford, and John quietly resigned himself to living with both his boyfriend and his boyfriend's skeletal brother for the foreseeable future. Well, at least he wouldn't be alone – he'd had quite enough of that.

Sherrinford did at least go home with Mycroft that day, saying that he didn't really want to live with a newly reunited couple, and that he'd stay with Mycroft until there were less adoring looks and constant fondling. Sherlock scowled and claimed not to know what he meant while John tried to carefully slide his knee out from underneath Sherlock's hand. Sherlock just gripped at it tighter, and John gave up, meeting Mycroft's amused look with as much defiance as he could. He wasn't going to apologise for being relieved that Sherlock was back, or be embarrassed that Sherlock was clearly just as happy to be back with him.

****

On New Year's Eve, they spent the evening at Angelo's while he plied them with an incredible amount of champagne – most of which John drank – and exclaimed at great length about how good it was to see Sherlock alive. They went down to the Thames for midnight and watched the fireworks over the Eye with what felt like the whole of the rest of London.

John glanced at Sherlock's faint frown of concentration as a shower of blue sparks cascaded across the sky and slipped his hand into Sherlock's, squeezing it to get his attention.

“You are absolutely not allowed to make fireworks in the flat,” he said, because he knew that look, and some things stood to be repeated.

“Of course not,” said Sherlock, eyes fixed on a series of bright green flowers bursting overhead. “I'll make them at Mycroft's.”

John laughed. “Well, if you must,” he said. Mycroft probably had an extremely expensive fire alarm, after all, and possibly even sprinklers. “Just let me know in advance so that I can alert the fire brigade.”

Sherlock pulled his gaze away from the fireworks and fixed it on John's face instead with a look that made John's breath catch in his throat. He wondered if he'd ever get used to the heady rush of realising just how much Sherlock cared for him.

Sherlock didn't bother saying anything, he just leaned in to John and pressed their lips together. They kissed while the fireworks continued to explode overhead, and it should have felt like the ending of a bad romance film, but instead it felt like a beginning.

“Kissing the person you mean to spend the rest of the year with,” said Sherlock against John's lips. “I almost forgot.”

“Not just this year, I hope,” said John, pulling Sherlock closer, until their bodies were pressed as close together as their lips.

“Every year,” said Sherlock. “I'll be kissing you at this time every year.”

“Good,” said John, and pulled Sherlock down into another kiss.

 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Fandom this is a fusion with: (skip) The Nightmare Before Christmas.  
> 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Halloweentown Holmes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/644432) by [swtalmnd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swtalmnd/pseuds/swtalmnd)
  * [Cover: Skeletons](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2530745) by [January_Marlinquin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/January_Marlinquin/pseuds/January_Marlinquin)
  * [[Podfic] Skeletons](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8611864) by [consulting_smartass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/consulting_smartass/pseuds/consulting_smartass)




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